Dedication

You were back in the ICU.

“Complications from the last surgery,” my mom explained. It had become almost a biweekly occurrence in the months following your return from Pittsburg and—what we’d hoped would be your final, life-saving—surgery. In the past, you were just dehydrated; they’d hook you up to a saline drip, and you’d be released after a day. But the tone in my mom’s voice told me this time was different. And that worried me. “You should really go see her,” she told me.

I immediately called my sister and we made plans to meet at the hospital after work the next day.

On the way, I stopped at Wawa. It felt awkward showing up empty handed, but I didn’t think flowers were appropriate. So I bought $20 worth of lollipops and your favorite chocolate—not sure what I was thinking with the chocolate; your colon was non-existent at that point and there’s no way you ate them. But having something in my hand made me feel better as Megan and I walked into Abington Hospital.

I remember this visit for three very distinct reasons.

First: it was the only time in nearly eight years—since the cancer diagnosis—that I visited and saw you in a physical hospital bed. Your major surgeries occurred mostly in Pittsburg and your post-op care was completed there. Like I said, if there were ever complications, you were admitted for a night or two, and sent home. You always got better.

Second: that was the day I told you the plot of my second novel.

After listening intently to Megan describe Maggie’s—her 1-year-old daughter—latest milestones and about her new pregnancy, you turned to me and asked, “How’s the book coming?” Redirecting the conversation—away from how crummy you felt, and the cancer—was a trick you’d mastered over the course of your sickness. And I knew better than to pepper you with questions about yourself. So, I told you about my latest project—my book on Gettysburg. Books were our thing; you were as big of a bibliophile as me and we frequently swapped titles and discussed them after. Which was why I needed your opinion about a very specific and important plot point. You were the only person I could ask. The only person who’d be honest. I talked out both options—two very different angles I was mulling over for the climax of the story I had yet to write. You were exhausted but you listened as I weighed out my rational and the character development behind both options. And then I poised my question—”Which do you prefer?” You took a few seconds to collect your thoughts—maybe even to chose your words wisely—then said, “I’ve never liked reading violence against women.” And that was that; my decision was made. It didn’t matter if I was leaning in the other direction, you said you liked the “less violent” option and your opinion meant that much to me.

And third: it was the first time I knew our well of miracles had dried up.

A soft knock at the door announced the arrival of your night nurse. “Ready for a walk?” she asked, after checking your saline drip and vitals. You looked over to Uncle Kenny—seated in the corner, but always within arm’s reach—and heaved a heavy sigh before saying, “As I’ll ever be. Don’t leave,” she said, pointing to us. Megan and I grabbed our coats and stepped out of the room, to give you a bit of privacy. We stood just outside the doorway. After a few minutes, I could hear your slippers shuffling on the linoleum. You stepped out, holding tight to your IV pole with one hand and to Uncle Kenny. His right arm was wrapped securely around your waist—you’d gotten so thin, I remember thinking. “We’re training for the 100-meter dash,” he said with a wink, as you turned from us and started up the corridor. But your pain was palpable; you could barely lift your feet, and you had no muscle-mass left in your legs. Uncle Kenny was your strength—he held you up and steady, as he’d done for the last eight years. Watching you struggle together, stop every few inches so you could catch your breath, and then push forward was gut-wrenchingly touching. Emotion sucker-punched me and I had to look away, tears streaming down my face.

I knew then; I knew we didn’t have much time left.

It’s been seven years, and your absence has left a crater-sized hole in all of our lives. One that can never be filled—and realistically, there’s no point in really trying. You meant that much to all of us. The best we’ve been able to do is keep our memories close and pass them on to anyone who will listen. Even now, my emotions are very raw and I’d be lying if I said my sadness isn’t tinged in a bit of anger. Anger that fate’s cruelest joke stole so much from you; never getting to see your kids start their own families, your four granddaughters will only know you from pictures, and you never got to grow old and retire with Uncle Kenny. Selfishly, I wish you had met Justin and Wyatt—God, you would’ve loved them.

And in a few short weeks, you would’ve read the full story that I told you so long ago.

The story that is dedicated to you.