Processing Part IV

..Yeah... I might be processing for awhile.

On Wednesday, November 4, at about 4:30 PM, we moved Grammy to Kavanagh House. It's a nice looking place - sort of like a mountain lodge - but I think that transition was difficult for all of us. Our first nurse was a bit on the clueless side which didn't do much to inspire confidence in any of us.

During the first week at Kavanagh, we all quickly learned to adapt to our new world: A small world where Grammy was the center. Her every move, every wish, anything she wanted, needed - we were literally falling over ourselves trying to ensure that her last (days? weeks?) were as comfortable as we could possible make them. She had a difficult time with the restlessness and itching so there was a lot of activity during those first seven days. She was easily burning more calories than she was consuming.

On her first Friday (Saturday?) at Kavanagh, her hairdresser came and did her hair and nails - she looked amazing. Seriously, she never looked sick. Her skin, while pale, was so pretty and her lips were pink like rosebuds. And, of course, her big, blue eyes were as clear and gorgeous as could be.

When I walked in, she said, "Don't take this the wrong way, cutie, but today would be a good day for me to go because my hair looks good."

The next day, she agreed that a catheter might be a better option than getting up so many times during the night and when my aunt said, "Now you can pee at will." Grammy replied, "And at anyone else for that matter."

She was correcting my grammar ("Are you done, Grammy?" "You mean finished?"), and pushing my bangs away from my eyes - like she'd done my whole life. She's never been a "bangs" fan - at least bangs longer than an inch...



Thankfully, my family has amazing senses of humor - that's surely what got us all through this incredibly surreal experience.

On Wednesday, November 11, we made sure she was all tucked in and cozy before leaving that evening (sometime around 10:00). In her agitated state, she must have asked to be put in her chair at about 11:00 that night. We don't have all of the details yet, but she was left alone in her chair (by this time, she had become fully dependent on two people getting her from chair to bed and back again as she simply didn't have the strength to move on her own) and she fell.

You bet we were upset. So many unanswered questions. Why was she left alone? For how long? Did she have a call button? How long was she on the floor? Did she lose consciousness? Have a stroke? She could have had a mini-stroke - did it happen before or after the fall? She had a nasty bump on the back of her head, a bruise on her cheek and she'd bitten her top lip - was she concussed? I don't know. None of us know. All I do know is that she was holding her own until the fall (eating - albeit only one bite per meal, able to get out of bed, able to communicate). Declining, yes - but now the decline had intensified.

Thursday, her speech started slurring a bit and she couldn't get the right words out.

Friday morning she recognized mom, Nardi and Judd, but by the time I got to her at about 10:00, she was already in bed and out of it for the most part.

She slept all day Saturday, Sunday, Monday... Each day growing more still - unable to give herself relief from the itching - unable to tell us what she needed or wanted. Breathing so labored that it was unbearable and heartbreaking to watch.

On Tuesday, around lunch, my mom and I were alone in the room with Grammy. I told her that I was going to have to go home and that this was my last day with her. (I was supposed to leave on Monday, but, thankfully, my mom convinced me to stay one more day.) I told her I loved her and that I was proud of her and, for the trillionth time, I thanked her for being my Grandmother.

At some point around that time, her bed started rocking gently back and forth. My mom said, "Do you see her bed moving?" Indeed, I did. I asked her if Grampa John was getting into bed with her. It wasn't creepy - it just felt like someone was there comforting her.

We all went out for dinner that night at about 6:30. I said my goodbyes to everyone that wasn't going back to tuck Grammy in for the evening and we headed back. I knew I was saying goodbye for the last time.

We got there just before 8:00. The nurse and aid had just turned her on her side so she was facing the door when we walked in. Her breathing had changed markedly and there was definitely something in the air that I hadn't felt before. I think it's important to note that we thought she was going to pass on each of the three previous nights based on what we were being told. She shouldn't have lived as long as she did - but then she was never much for doing things the way everyone else does them.

We sat around her bed quietly - just loving her - when she took her final breath at 8:19.





Photos taken November 7, 2009 at Kavanagh House in Des Moines.

Processing Part III

For many years, I'd go out to Des Moines to "surprise" my grandmother for her birthday. I put the word surprise in quotes because, really, at some point she probably caught on. ("Oh! You little rascal!")

For whatever reasons over the last few years - usually work - it's not been possible for me to get out there for my annual "surprise" visit, so I've gone at different times of the year instead. In 2008, I actually made it out there twice - once in the spring before I left for Paris, and again in August. We had a great time in April while I was there, but I could definitely see the physical manifestations of the disease that had begun claiming her body. They're going to find a cure. I don't know how, at the age of 40, I was still telling myself she was never going to die, but I was. Misdiagnosis. And I believed it.

I know it's weird. It's not like I go around wishing immortality on my loved ones but, when it came to my grandmother, it's like my brain somehow got suspended into the thinking patterns of a five year-old. Denial. And selfishness. But mostly denial. (And selfishness.)

I made a hasty and impromptu visit again last August (2008). Probably because I'd heard or sensed that she was declining. I drove out there and, after one day, I had a total meltdown. She still looked beautiful and healthy and was living independently - but...

How do I explain this next part?

Let's just say that a big ol' tidal wave of reality came crashing down on me and I finally woke up. Your grandmother is very sick and has a disease for which there is no cure. She's almost 86 years-old and she's dying. GOT IT?

I completely freaked out, packed up my stuff and high-tailed it back to Denver - bawling the whole way. Yeah, I'm so not proud of that. At all. But I guess that's when I finally accepted the fact that, well, you know. And, if my out-of-character and immature behavior around that visit weren't bad enough, I actually started fearing talking to her on the phone because I was afraid of what I might hear. So denial turned into avoidance. Not total avoidance - we still talked, just not as much - or for as long. I'm pretty sure that had I had a healthy and realistic perspective on my grandmother's mortality from the get-go, I could have parsed these irrational behaviors out over the course of four decades, but I didn't, so there you have it.

She went into the hospital in May after she took a fall. I didn't know it until just recently, but apparently it was pretty bad. Not the fall itself, but how her disease was progressing and the fact that the blood transfusions weren't working as well or for as long as they had been. She was losing weight, losing energy, losing the battle.

I'm not sure why I didn't know other than maybe my family was afraid to say anything to me. I still remember the conversation with my mom after Grammy had been diagnosed with myelofibrosis. My grandmother had maybe three colds in her life - she just never got sick; that, coupled with my immature fantasy that she was going to live forever - well, yeah, I'm sure that wasn't the kind of news my mom looked forward to giving me. Even my grandmother was reluctant to talk to me about it, though I realized she didn't really talk much about it to anyone at all, except maybe her kids.

She "recovered" enough to go back home but her lifestyle had changed significantly by then. She stopped driving and, for the most part, stopped leaving her apartment. This past August, I was talking with her on the phone an she asked me when I was going to visit her again. She'd never before asked me that question so I had a feeling she had a feeling...

I knew that my mom and uncle had made plans to visit her in late October. Normally they'd go out for her birthday (October 22), but this year they booked their trips out a week later. Knowing that they were going out there to see her gave me some comfort because I wasn't sure how I was going to swing it (can't just close the bookshop, right?).

Everything happens for a reason - good or bad. I've always subscribed to this theory, but never more so than with the events that took place next.

My grandmother had a blood test done on October 23 (the day after her 87th birthday) and they discovered that her white blood cell count had gone upwards of 200,000 (a healthy count is somewhere between 4,500 and 10,000) and her platelets were hovering around 7 (normal range: 150,000 to 400,000), so they hospitalized her immediately. She would receive a couple of blood transfusions, a platelet drip or two and they were going to release her after about four days - just before my mom and uncle were to arrive.

When she found out that Grammy was in the hospital, my mom made arrangements to extend her stay so that she could get Grammy settled in at her apartment and take care of her for awhile.

They got into town on October 29 - Grammy was still in the hospital and it wasn't clear when she'd get released. Meanwhile, I'd made plans to come out to see her when I'd initially found out she was in the hospital. I think we were all feeling a heightened sense of urgency this time around.

My husband's contract (job) ended on October 31. Not an ideal situation for our family, but it meant that he and our daughter could work at the bookshop so I could go spend a few days with my grandmother: I'd drive out on November 1 and come home November 5 in time for the weekend events at our shop.

I got to the hospital just after 5:00 on Sunday evening and, as I was going down the hall to her room, she happened to be out for a little stroll with my mom. You have no idea how happy I was to see her - to see her up and about. I walked with them around the floor, taking note of how tiny she'd become. Breathe.

On Monday morning when I got to her room, my mom was already there tending to her. She was very itchy - due either to a medication or kidney and/or liver issues. Out of her mind itchy - and this would plague her until the end. We took turns putting lotion all over, scratching her back, rubbing her feet, getting her vaseline, walking her around the hall, getting her situated in her chair, back in bed, bundling her up, re-bundling her up... it was non-stop like that until about four days before she passed. She was restless and itchy - but, thankfully, not in any pain.

Anyway, on that first Monday, I was sitting on her bed with her and she said, "Have they told you my prognosis?" I said, "No, tell me."

"Well, I have about one or two months." To which my mom said, "Mom, that's not what the doctor said, that's what you said." Her short-term memory was a bit glitchy, so my mom was gently reminding her that no one had set a time-line yet. But, when someone tells you that they believe that their death is imminent, well - you sort of have to pay attention to that.

At that point I asked my mom if I could have some time alone with Grammy. We held hands and she looked into my eyes and lovingly said, "I don't want you to cry. I haven't shed one tear over this - it is what it is and there's nothing to be done about it so we must accept it." Of course I started to cry. She went on, "I want you to live a good life. I love you and am so very proud of you - enjoy this life and be happy."

If anyone lived a good life, it was she. Always smiling - always finding the joy - always grateful. She'd been the ultimate role-model - I knew exactly what she meant. But - ugh - it was like a hug and a punch in the stomach at the very same time. It was that exact moment that I'd finally fully acknowledged and accepted - and understood - the inevitable.

Four weeks ago today, on that Monday afternoon, we (mom, aunt, uncle and I) met with Grammy's oncologist. It was purely for our benefit - our chance to ask questions. He showed us her medical file - more than two-inches thick - and reminded us that it had been almost exactly three years since her November 4, 2006 diagnosis.

What were her options at this point? Stay in the hospital? Not likely. Back to her apartment? No - and probably never again. Nursing care? A possibility. Hospice? Also a possibility.

We didn't discuss the options with Grammy until Tuesday. She wasn't even trying to hear the word "hospice" so it was decided that she would go back to her apartment building and take up residence in one of the apartments in which she'd receive ongoing nursing care. We had a plan and, at that point, I was still planning to come home on Thursday.

On Wednesday morning, I wanted to get to the hospital early in hopes of catching the doctor. We were all anxious about her counts and just wanting as much information as possible. I got there at 7:00 and Grammy was up and about opening the blinds to her room; the weather had been unseasonably warm and gorgeous and she wanted to let the morning sunlight in.

I'd missed the doctor by 30 minutes.

"Is everyone else coming this morning, I've made a decision and want to talk to all four of you together so I only have to say it once."

I told her that Nardi would be stopping by on her way to work and that she should be there any minute.

"Did something change, Grammy?"

"Yes. I think so."

When my aunt arrived, and we didn't know when my mom or uncle would be getting there, Grammy went ahead and explained to us that she'd had a nice, long talk with her doctor and that she'd made the decision to go to Kavanagh House (hospice).

The doctor told her that she had become 100% transfusion dependent and that, while she'd be under the care of a skilled nursing staff, she would not be able to receive her transfusions anywhere other than the hospital. This would require her to get up and dressed each morning and spend four hours each day at the hospital. "To what end? It might prolong things for a few weeks or a month, but it's too much of a burden. I've made my decision and I'm okay with it."

She was unusually calm and lucid as she delivered this news to us. It was as if she transcended everything (the itching, the restlessness, and surely a good deal of anxiety - whether she'd admit to it or not) in those moments. It's so hard to adequately explain, but I knew she was completely at peace with her decision and that gave me the strength and fortitude I'd need to get through the next stages: I just didn't know it yet.

Needless to say, I opted to postpone my trip home.


At IMMC - Monday, November 2, 2009: Her smile is genuine, mine is not (crying on the inside). Oh - and that's the natural color of her lips. Gorgeous.

Processing Part II

From as far back as I can remember I've only ever dreaded - truly, truly dreaded - one thing: Losing my grandmother. It sounds silly, but the mere mention of it - even as recently as this year - sent me into a frenzied crying jag. It was never, "When she dies," it was, "If she dies." I honestly believed I could will her to live forever.

When I was five, my mom and I lived with Grammy while mom was trying to figure things out after separating from my father. That's when I absolutely fell head-over-heels in love with her. She was beautiful, graceful, had the most fabulous clothes and shoes, gave the best hugs, made the best Pop-Tarts (toasted blueberry - no frosting - with a thin layer of butter melted on top), always told me how glad she was to have me there, always made me feel special and important ("Gramma's little helper"): She totally validated my existence - you see, I was utterly invisible until my grandmother brought me to life with her love.

My mom and I had just come out of an extremely tumultuous situation. My parents didn't get along and there were lots of behind-the-doors arguments that left me feeling sad and confused. I'd heard the word "divorce" many times, but never knew that it meant my world was about to change. Fortunately, it changed for the better. I hated the fighting. Besides, I felt like I'd totally scored getting to live with Gramma.

Yes, I worshipped and adored her - I have for my whole life. She was always perfect in my eyes and she never once let me down or disappointed me. Ever.

And that's just who she was as my grandmother.

As a woman, she'd overcome the losses of a child (who was stillborn), a brother (Vernon to cancer at a young age), her parents (father, Freas, who died when Grammy was in her 30s or 40s; and mother, Ann, who lived to 83), two husbands whom she adored madly (John in 1967 and Dick in 1994), and a grandchild (Elliott in 2004). I realize that we all lose family members throughout the courses of our lives; what made her remarkable was her strength and fortitude during these difficult times. I have vivid memories of her at Dick's and my great-grandmother's funerals: In hindsight, I realize she was modeling a behaviors (strength, courage) that I would have to learn to eventually summon.

In 1973, at the age of 51, she entered the workforce and pursued a career as a life insurance agent for Bankers Life (now The Principal Financial Group) - where she was highly-esteemed and incredibly successful. I frequently tagged along with her to the office and on appointments so I was able to see, first-hand, her wonderful social skills and the thought, care and kindness in which she handled her relationships with co-workers and customers alike. I was quite young and impressionable back then so it's not surprising that I subconsciously learned the importance of empathy and listening (customer service) by watching my grandmother in both her personal and professional roles.

She had the best parties, the coolest friends, oh - and the most incredible singing voice! She was the soprano soloist for the Plymouth Congregational Church (now Plymouth UCC) in Des Moines for 36 years (1952-1988). This is not a rinky-dink choir, y'all. I couldn't find a video of the choir during her tenure, but here they are now (click HERE) sounding every bit as good as they did then (and always, for that matter). The choir director shown in the video, Sharon Parker-Lenihan, is the soloist that would eventually replace my grandmother in 1988. What. Ever. :)

Anyway, one of my favorite memories of my grandmother (I think it's a favorite of most, if not all, of our family) is when she would perform her "O Holy Night" solo during the midnight service each Christmas Eve to a standing room only crowd. I'd get so excited and proud that I could hardly contain myself. As far as I'm concerned, no one ever has done - or ever will do - justice to "O Holy Night" the way she did. No one.

She was a total rock star in absolutely everything she did.

And this is only the woman she was after I was born...


Me & Grammy


Upside Down Maggies at The Morrison Inn (Colorado)


Fabulous...


Four generations...


Grampa John & Grammy

Processing Part I

On November 4, 2006, my grandmother was diagnosed with myelofibrosis. Myelofibrosis is the scarring of the bone marrow brought on by an onslaught of underdeveloped white cells that eventually crowd out the healthy red blood cells, platelets and normal white cells. When blood gets crowded out of the bone marrow, it's forced to form in the liver and spleen causing these organs begin to enlarge and crowd out other organs like the stomach (causing loss of appetite) and lungs (making it difficult to breathe).

Frequent blood and platelet transfusions are necessary to help boost energy and fight off infections (a common cold is potentially deadly to someone with white cells and a fall could be fatal to someone with low platelets), but the effects and sustenance are lessened with each transfusion and the patient is required to get them more frequently until a point when they become 100% transfusion dependent (daily, four-hour transfusions).

It's estimated that about two of every 1,000,000 people are diagnosed with myelofibrosis and of those rare cases, 10% develop into leukemia: That's what happened to my grandmother. Not only is it rare but, for now anyway, it's incurable.

So, that's the disease in a nutshell. There's a whole host of accompanying side-effects that plague people with this disease (like profound nightsweats and constant nausea), but my grandmother rarely mentioned anything about them. In fact, not only did she not complain, she simply refused to put any energy toward the things that were happening to her. She wasn't the complaining type - ever.

She was always much more interested in knowing what was going on in the lives of her family. "It is what it is," she'd say about what was happening to her body. Ah - I get that. There really are some things we have no control over - so why waste energy on fighting it? Still, it was a difficult pill to swallow knowing that she was under attack and that this disease was making it difficult for her to do the things she once enjoyed doing (which ranged over the three-year period from working out and swimming to simply getting out of bed).

I don't know anyone with a stronger PMA (her term for "positive mental attitude") than my grandmother. She had a wonderful life but certainly experienced some devastating events which, individually, might cause anyone else to succumb to pity or woe, but her unwavering graciousness, strength of character and joyful disposition kept her afloat time after time.

More later...

Billboard's #1 Song October 22, 1922

"Mr. Gallagher and Mr. Shean" by Gallagher & Shean

"Glamor - Tax"

Grammy's on the right: Work it, girl!

Just For Fun

Fierce!

Arline

Iowa In November

Winterset Iowa

John Wayne's birthplace...


The bar featured in The Bridges of Madison County...

The Bridges Of Madison County

The Roseman Covered Bridge




The Cutler-Donahoe Covered Bridge




The Holliwell Covered Bridge


The Imes Covered Bridge

The Roads Of Madison County

From here to there? About a mile...

The Dogs Of Madison County

Well, one dog, anyway...






He kept me company while I took some photographs, licked my nose when I bent down to give him some pets then watched as I drove away...

Memories

I think the first person I ever fell in love with was my grandmother.

Because of my dad's job with Standard Oil, we (me, mom, & dad) had to move around a lot when I was little. I remember going to several different pre-schools and kindergartens but never really staying in one place long enough to make friends. We lived in Iowa mostly, I think, but at some point we moved to Houston and that's where my parent's marriage came apart. I was five.

My mom packed us up in our big, white Ford and, without stopping, drove us to my grandmother's house in Des Moines. I don't remember the day we got there, but I can say without a drop of uncertainty that we were pulled into the folds of my grandmother's world with all the warmth and love that anyone could ever possibly imagine.

644 Harwood Drive was heaven to me. Magical. As one turns onto Harwood Drive from 42nd Street, the first house that meets your gaze head-on is 644. The long driveway, long sidewalk, big front yard - the tree from which a baby bird fell one spring afternoon. (My mom helped me care for it, but it died the next day.) The massive lilac bushes that flourished on the north side of the house.

The front porch. So many moments and memories there...

When you walk through the front door and the dark anteroom, there's a formal dining room to the immediate right. In fact, the table on which this computer rests is the very one that sat in that room all those years ago (my aunt has it now). And the massive server that sat at the back of the dining room. I can still conjure the thick, pepper-silver aroma that wafted out each time a drawer was opened. There was a back entrance to the kitchen from the far end of the dining room.

The glass kitchen table where my mom tried to make me eat steamed spinach when I was a baby, the blender components that had been built into the counter-top, the coffee can filled with Louie's dog food - and the little green cup with flecks of some sort on it that was used to scoop the kibble out. The phone that hung over the little desk from which the babysitter and I would make prank phone calls when I got a little older.

In the back corner of the kitchen were stairs that led to the basement. Narrow, steep stairs - in my memory, that descended into a whole other world that mostly belonged to my uncle. His music studio was down there - a room in which the walls and ceiling were completely covered with egg carton-looking material. I'd poke around in there from time to time, but only when my uncle wasn't around.

There was also a pool table down there - to this day, I will never figure out how they got that thing down there. Whenever there was a tornado warning, that's where I was supposed to go - that's what I remember being told anyway, though I don't think I ever had to do it.

The laundry room was down there, too. I don't remember much about the laundry room except the laundry chute in the corner of the room that went up through the kitchen on the first floor and on up to the bathroom on the second floor. More times than I can count, my grandmother would need me to crawl up into the tiny chute to free a piece of clothing that had gotten stuck on its way down. I think that must have precipitated my claustrophobia - but I would have done anything for my Gramma, so up I went.

I remember the time we discovered I'd gotten too long to do the job. I had to lie on my back and inch my way up hands over head until I was sitting up - top half up inside the chute, bottom half sticking out - then I'd have to try to wiggle around for a few minutes until I was standing up inside the thing. Well, this last time, I could get half way in, but my legs had gotten too long and I wasn't able to bend them to get in. Not gonna lie - I was happy to be relieved of that duty.

Anyhoo...back upstairs...

To the left of the anteroom was the living room with its big picture window that looked over the porch and onto the front lawn. The fireplace, the pictures on the mantle - I remember one of my aunt specifically - either from my mom's wedding or maybe it was a senior picture - anyway, her hair was up and she looked so pretty. The Christmas tree would sit atop the big, white, round table in the corner of the room and every Christmas Eve, my uncle would play the auto harp while we sang Christmas carols. Then we'd bundle up and walk a couple of blocks to Plymouth Congregational Church for the midnight service. Gramma was the soloist for the choir and every year she sang, "O Holy Night" to the standing room only crowd.

There would be a bit of socializing after the service, but then a bunch of people always came back to Gramma's house for eggnog. Christmas morning was like torture because we'd have to have breakfast before we could open presents. Eggs Benedict. Gross.

I was the first grandchild - the next one didn't come along until I was 10. My uncle was living at home when we moved in with Gramma after leaving Houston, but he was rarely home and I knew to steer clear of him when he was home; my aunt was off at college and just came home during the holidays. I spent a lot of alone time with my Gramma. A lot.

I slept in the "back bedroom" - it was in the back corner of the house between the bathroom and the entry up to the attic (my favorite place ever!). The wall paper was funky and played tricks on my eyes and there was an evil clown that lived under the bed who tried to tickle my feet at night if they weren't safely tucked under the covers. The back bedroom was okay, but I preferred to stay in my aunt's room across the hall - it was big and bright and, more importantly, clown-free.

On her closet door, there were two posters: one of Steve McQueen from the movie "Le Mans" and one from "Romeo and Juliet" - Olivia Hussey was so beautiful. I must have stared at those two posters for hundreds of hours over the course of my childhood.

Each morning, I would wait for Gramma to poke her head into whichever room I was sleeping and ask me if I wanted to snuggle. I think there was some sort of rule or routine that I wasn't supposed to get out of bed until she came to get me because I don't recall ever getting up before her. Anyway - we'd pad back to her bedroom and I'd take a running leap into her bed (I was pretty little so it was too high off the ground to just get into the regular way), she'd crawl in and we'd snuggle. She was warm and soft and her scent of creams blanketed me. I never went back to sleep, but I would try to lie as still as possible so she could go back to sleep if she wanted. She never slept once she woke up though. She may have "rested her eyes" but she never slept.

After about 15 minutes, we'd get up and go downstairs for breakfast. She'd make my favorite - a toasted blueberry Pop Tart (no frosting) with warm, melty butter and a glass of orange juice - and "we'd" do the Jumble puzzle from the Des Moines Register. Then we'd get ready and she'd take me to work with her. I doubt she took me every morning because, at some point, I started going to kindergarten at Hubbell. I went with her a lot, though, and she was so proud to have me with her. All the people at Banker's Life called me "Gramma's Little Helper" - I felt *so* important.

We'd walk from the "home office" to another building and I swear every single person knew her and said hi to her. I thought she must have been the most important person in the world. She was always so smiley and cheerful and quick to introduce me to anyone we encountered.

I don't know what "grown up" circumstances were going on around me or where my mom was during the months we were living on Harwood Drive, all I know is that it was like heaven and my grandmother was an angel - those were without question the best memories I have of my childhood.

My Gramma. Every time she'd open her purse, it smelled of Certs. She used to vocalize in the car wherever we'd go. The way she'd put her lipstick on after every meal. The way everything was always just so and so very perfect. The way she'd take my face in her hands and touch noses with me ("Nosey pokers!"). Pat my knee while she was driving and say, "I'm so glad you're here, cutie!" She's got a million rituals and a routine for everything and I see so clearly how each of us have adopted her behaviors. Proudly.

She never complained about anything. Ever. She was rarely sick. She ate healthily, walked every day and took very good care of herself. She looked like a movie star, dressed to the nines, and always carried herself with elegance and grace. Her grammar is flawless, her manners impeccable - she is perfect in every way. Every single way.

We all adore her - always have. She is our precious angel. Her unconditional love for each of us has impacted us more profoundly than we can probably ever comprehend. She *is* love.

Where so many people fall short - she never has. She has always risen to the occasion - every occasion - and done the job that no one else would ever have the strength to do. I think it's fair to say that she's never disappointed anyone in her life.

I know that someone reading this will doubt what I've written, but if you know her, then you know truer words have never be written.