Tag Archives: ray

lost socks and butterflies

I have been accused of something terrible by my husband. The other night, I went upstairs to go to sleep to find him folding his laundry next to the bed. He looked at me dead in the eye with a perfectly straight face and said, “You’ve been stealing my socks.”

Wait, what?

Let’s be real here. I have swiped many articles of Ray’s clothing, as any good wife will do. Mostly, sweatshirts. Pajama pants on occasion. Most recently, a fantastic, buffalo plaid, button-down shirt that Ray claims is too small on him, but I know he was just begrudgingly giving me a reason to snuggle up in it. But socks? A sock thief I am not.

On Ray’s bureau, there were something like 20 solo socks with no partners to be found anywhere. I do handle laundry half of the time, so certainly it could have been something I did. I passed the buck and blamed the dog, who probably blamed the cat. Ray checked the cellar to see if the creatures hid their sock stash somewhere to save for later, but nothing turned up. A bunch of single socks, all vanished in the night.

Ray was, of course, kidding that I was the culprit. The socks are genuinely gone, but none of us – neither the humans nor the furry folk – are to blame, although I’d still bet money on the dog. Perhaps the washing machine chewed them up. Maybe the hotel bed sheets on our latest vacation ate them never to be seen again. But like the loss of the socks, things, stupid things, annoying things, and meaningless things happen all the time.

Things, sometimes, just happen organically, randomly, and magically. Okay, maybe not magically. Maybe the dog stole all of the cat’s toys, so the cat got antsy. Then maybe the cat stole one sock, and the dog swiped one too to be like her sister (that’s two). Maybe the washing machine ate one (that’s three), the hotel sheets ate a couple (let’s say we’re up to five), Ray lost one (six), I misplaced one for kicks (seven), and so forth (like magic, twenty). Maybe the totality of what’s happened was a result of everyone and everything that transpired as things tend to do in life. And now Ray is down twenty or so socks, because of the summation of a series of seemingly insignificant events that caused something greater.

When I was little I wanted to be a veterinarian, because I’d get to put my brains to use and help animals, until my mom pointed out that I’d have to put animals down which immediately changed my mind. Then I wanted to be a doctor because I’d get to put my brains to use and help people, until I was permanently scarred by the thought of cadavers and blood in medical school.

From seventh grade through high school, I was bullied and increasingly more anxious just being around my peers and started spending study periods hiding in the guidance library, an empty and quiet room filled with books of colleges, careers, and life after high school. There, I found the resources and answer I’d been looking for. You like chemistry, math, and health? You want a job that’s highly demanded, respected, and paid? You should be a pharmacist. You want to stay local and avoid a high tuition? You should go to UConn or URI. UConn looked nice. Bam. Easy.

I left high school with a clear path which I quickly hated in actuality. I hated pharmacy school and the stress. I hated the choice I’d made single-handedly, but was so far in my mom begged me to finish. I wanted to make her happy even if I wasn’t. I went on sixth-year rotations with no clue what I wanted to do when I graduated, until one phenomenal preceptor said, “You like to write? You should be a medical writer. You have to go to Midyear.” So I did.

At Midyear, I started thinking about fellowships and the future. I was offered my top choice and for reasons I still question, I later turned it down. But in the airport on the way home from this weird experience in California in an attempt to find my future, I did. I met Ray and got seated next to him on the plane. A hop, skip, and a long distance relationship later, I married him.

In the butterfly effect of years of fear-based choices and uncertainty and a little bit of hope, I met my husband. I met him because I wanted to be a veterinarian then a doctor then a pharmacist. I met him because I hid from my peers in a rarely used area of the high school. I met him because my mom wouldn’t let me quit what I’d started, and because deep down, I knew she was right. I met him because I was lost and one preceptor had the best advice (Dr. Effie Kuti, thank you). All along I wanted to figure out my future, and I did when I met him. And I met him because of the summation of a series of seemingly insignificant events that caused something greater.

A little over a year after I graduated with my pharmacy degree, my mom was diagnosed with a brain tumor and my world crumbled. And somehow, all of those random events including having Ray in my life made me prepared to help her through her treatment and trials. She wouldn’t let me quit pharmacy school, a fact I resented at the time, but that very fact in turn helped her. Looking back on it all, maybe I didn’t do it to make her proud at all. Maybe God or the universe or whatever you believe in knew what was in store and knew she’d need the help. Maybe the series of seemingly insignificant events caused something greater: peace of mind.

I thank God that I went to and finished pharmacy school. I thank God for every single little thing that made it happen, step by step, inch by inch, butterfly and beyond. And maybe my mom’s passing will be an impetus for something great to happen that hasn’t been realized yet.

Anything could happen. Maybe Ray will find his socks. Maybe he and I will have a child that will find the cure for glioblastoma in my mom’s memory. Maybe I’ll learn that without her, I can still be strong and find happiness. Maybe she’ll come back as a butterfly this spring.

Anything could happen.

Tori

Advertisements

what is wednesday?

“She is delightfully chaotic; a beautiful mess. Loving her is a splendid adventure.”

I’m a little confused. At a standstill, really. Shrugging my shoulders and trying to figure this one out. We just celebrated what we’re thankful for on Throwback Thursday. I mean, Thanksgiving. Then we proved we’re not content with what we already have by honoring Black Friday. I don’t know what Saturday and Sunday were called. Black Friday’s Evil Stepsisters, perhaps. And if that isn’t enough, we buy more crap we don’t need on Cyber Monday.

Some awesome organizations out there remind us to remember those who are less fortunate on Giving Tuesday. Giving Tuesday campaigns make me smile that there are still some inspirational folks among those who were throwin’ elbows for the latest and last Kindle on the shelf. Whatever Kindle is most popular right now, assuming Kindle’s are still popular. Whatever the popular thing is that people duke it out over. But violence is not the answer. That’s what internet shopping is for so you can be a shopping ninja from the comfort of your own home. In the nude, even. Before leaving the topic of Giving Tuesday, wait! Here’s my plug. Please go donate to any cause you love if you haven’t already. Pick any! Support Gay Rights and Equality. Bring kitten toys to an animal shelter. Support brain tumor research with NBTS to find a cure in my mom’s memory! Anything.

But after Giving Tuesday, then what? What the heck is the day after called? The day after Tuesday? Any other Wednesday? Hump day, for most. But seriously.

We have a manic stretch of days from the day we say we’re grateful, to the four days we shop like we’re on Supermarket Sweet, to one more day of being good people, and then what? Sidebar: Supermarket Sweep was the shit. It was me and my mom’s goal to not only be on it but to dominate it. We were both sprinters with great fast-twitch muscles to beat everyone to the turkeys, other cuts of fine meat, and bacon. We’d find a bonus somewhere at the end of the refrigerated meat aisle, switch carts, get the damn baby formula and diapers fast! We had our plan down cold. I digress. No more talk about shopping.

Today is just a Wednesday. There’s no name given to it by pop culture or the newscasters that I’m aware of. Scratch that. I just Googled it. It’s been called Weeping Wednesday because of all the bills people racked up. Really? What if you spent within your means and finished your next month’s project of shopping? There’s no crying in that. I’ll probably be crying because I’m a sobbing mess lately with the holidays here and my mom not here. But that’s not the same.

The Wednesday after is just back to normal. It’s living in a messy world, where every single day has loads of responsibilities, not just one the shopping gods have delegated for us: give thanks, buy, buy, buy, buy some more, give. Wednesday doesn’t have a set agenda. It’s more carefree, a little messy, even wacky if you will. Anyone local knows Trucchi’s Supermarkets have Wacky Wednesdays. My mom was a huge fan. She’d stock up on whatever we didn’t need, but it was always prime time to get cereal, since we were only allowed to buy it if it was on sale and my mom had a coupon. Ray’s mom had the same deal with him growing up, to be fair. But still, we’re back on shopping. Enough of that.

Wacky, messy, normal, living, breathing, being Wednesday doesn’t quite have a melodic ring to it, but life is not cookie cutter. I so badly wanted it to be a perfect cookie cutter when I was little and tried my hardest to make it that way, but life is a blubbering, sloppy mess. Like our dog’s kisses. She goes all over the place in excitement. She licks up your nose back to a section of your head you didn’t think you could reach, your ear lobes, the inside of your mouth if you’re not careful. She stands on anything in reach to get to you. Your face, the area of my chest where boobs should reside if I had them, Ray’s delicate areas, your gut which always hurts. She’s just all over the place. You can’t control it or contain it. She’s entropy! I’m so far out of school I barely remember this, but something in thermodynamics states that in natural processes entropy increases. Using life as a metaphor, that’d mean everything gets messy and it’s basically supposed to be that way. It’s supposed to be all over the place with nonsense and crazy thrown in. Just like the organization of my essay right now.

Here’s my Wacky Wednesday: Call in to 7am meeting while still basically asleep and definitely still in pajama’s with bed hair (messy). Be exhausted after having insomnia and trying to treat it by pacing and getting out of bed to write this essay until 2am the night before so crawl into the shower begrudgingly. Brush my hair if I remember (messy). Drive to work when I will most likely cry about something that reminded me of my mom or a trigger that brought up my dad (ugly cry, messy). Seriously though. I had a meltdown over a water bottle the other day. Get to work with makeup smeared down my face (messy). Pull my shit together for work even if I cry there too randomly. But I also twerk behind my officemate, do jigs in front of the Keurig, and run the risk of peeing my pants every single day since the office is an icebox (that’s messy and it’s happened before). Drive home and cry (messy). Realize I have no clean clothes (messy) and must do a laundry immediately, realize the dog ate her poop again (disgustingly messy), notice the kitten is a gem (cats aren’t messy), realize it’s a night Ray works until 10pm which means I’ll be alone and sad (messy), perhaps I’ll cook the rest of the salmon (messy but delicious), try to wash my face like they do in infomercials but fail and get soap and water all over the sink and mirror (messy), hog the comforter (mean messy), and yeah. You get the drift. You, the person reading this, might not have the same exact scenarios as me, but you know you have a lot of messy in your life. Admit it. You’re a freaking disaster too. Maybe you have poop-filled diapers to tend to, soccer cleats after a game in the mud you need to clean up, hair dye covering your forehead and fingers, your basement’s abyss (ours too) that you’re afraid to even enter, your family (oh, trust me, you’re not alone) – all messy.

We’re all disasters in some regard. And that’s kind of a cool common bond. We probably have millions of intentions for every day that barely ever get done. Things we meant to do and had to do that we never do. But even focusing on a little of it is something. Taking a chip out of it is a start. Maybe there’s a mess before you. Something you know you need to tackle, even a part of yourself you deem as a mess. Know that some stains never come out; some things can never be worked out. But who the hell cares? Functioning disasters deserve a badge of honor.

How about the back to normal Wednesday be dubbed Wacky Wednesday (yay Trucchi’s!) where you can stop trying to hold all of your shit together from the past five days, holiday shopping, time crunches, and races against time. Relax and unfold. Let your disastrous self be revealed. Let all of your crazy shine through. Be messy and imperfect. And just be you. That’s your only requirement today.

Just like any other.

Tori

perspective – part deux

Ray and I are officially home from Paris and the trip was heaven. Seriously. Heaven. It only intensified my love affair with the city.

bonjour

i mean seriously, come on. bonjour, beautiful.

Everything I’ve ever seen in photos was a million times better in person. I couldn’t get enough of the Eiffel Tower, the beauty of the French language and entire freaking city, the value of fresh flowers and good food, and beautiful, interesting people. That means I lurked and took lots of photos of strangers. They tell a story better than I ever could.

artists

artists

walkers

handsome couples

lovers

lovers

and people that wanted to kill me

and people that wanted to kill me with musicians in the background

Anyway, per my last post, I hoped to find something in Paris – specifically up upon Montmartre – that I’d hoped to find my whole life. I never knew what that something was. Just that it was up there for me. Talk about pressure.

We found “my staircase” – it’s not mine, really. I think Brassaï made it most beautiful in a black and white photograph he took, but I tried to capture the same angle. So happy we found this puppy.

rue foyatier

rue foyatier

But here’s what I’m most happy about. Ecstatic really, but in a bittersweet way. The church up upon Montmartre is named Basilica of the Sacred Heart. It’s the very special thing at the top of the hill that I thought perhaps housed the thing I was always looking for. And then my mom passed and I thought that dream was a load of crap, but Ray thought we needed to go to Paris anyway.

i've loved this church for years without ever seeing it. it's so much better in person, as life always is

i’ve loved this church for years without ever seeing it. it’s so much better in person, as life always is better firsthand

When we entered the church, I wanted to light a candle for my mom. Had to. It was obligatory in an OCD kind of way, because it wouldn’t feel right if we didn’t. But I had to find the right spot to light the candle. That would mean that I had to find the right patron saint to honor. We started towards the left, and nothing felt right. My mom and I lit a candle at the very back of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City, so perhaps that would be the same spot at the Basilica. Nope, didn’t feel right. So we circled back around in our counterclockwise loop from the entrance and distance was running out to find the right statue. Found the second to last statue and it still didn’t feel right. And then we walked up to the last statue. So really, the first statue in the Basilica that you’d see if you started towards the right. And it was saint Maguerite Marie. French for Margaret Mary. My mom’s name, and the patron saint she was named after.

We lit a candle for my mom at her patron saint’s statue, the first statue upon entering the Basilica of the Sacred Heart up upon Montmartre. Like my mom is right there, at the top of the hill in Paris. Boom, bonjour.

marguerite marie otherwise known as margaret mary

marguerite marie otherwise known as margaret mary

While that didn’t bring me perspective, it brought me peace. And that’s the thing I probably always needed to find these years I’ve been dreaming of Paris. It didn’t bring me closure, because I’m not okay that she’s not here anymore. But it did bring me a profound sense of peace knowing she’s there.

Paris can be my heaven. Maybe it’s hers. She would have loved it. She’d have loved the chocolate eclairs and croissants. She would have loved the picnics in the Tuileries garden. She would have conversed with Parisians beautifully with her perfect French accent like the locals. She would have loved power-walking up the hills and stairs in Montmartre to that final, profound resting place.

Bonsoir, Mom. Sleep tight.

Tori

perspective

About four years ago, I talked with a random pharmacy grad at the Midyear conference in California who I was interviewing with about my dream about going to Paris. How I’d wanted to go my whole life. How I had a photo of the Eiffel Tower on my wall with Audrey Hepburn’s quote, “Paris is always a good idea.” How I had heard the John Denver song, “A Country Girl in Paris,” growing up and felt it resonate so deeply within me.

Up upon Montmartre when she stops to rest awhile,
all the artists look at her and they long to paint her smile.
For even in her sorrow there’s something in her eyes…

I had Montmartre on the top of my bucket list before I knew what bucket lists were, because I was so confident it would lift my sadness somehow. I pushed myself so hard in school to the detriment of my happiness. And then worse in high school. And then worse in college. So I held this deep belief through all of those years that there was something waiting for me up upon Montmartre that would be so profoundly uplifting, none of it would matter anymore.

Back to the point. The girl at Midyear. She said she shared that dream but felt like a trip to Paris needed to be with someone you’re in love with. It’s too romantic not to. She was right, and I kind of hated her for being right. But Paris would be put on hold. Finishing school and finding a job were more important then to make all the hard work worth it. I was at Midyear to find a future for myself. Besides, there was nobody on the horizon.

And then a couple days later, it was time to go home from California to Massachusetts and I met Ray at the airport. And then I was seated next to him on the airplane. And that was the start of us. Indeed, Midyear made me find my future. All of a sudden, I not only had someone on the horizon, I had the love of my life and my husband.

i can't believe this was a year ago

i can’t believe this was a year ago! look how handsome he is. good god, that smile.

We were going to go to Paris for our honeymoon, but given the fact that our wedding was planned in a whirlwind, we wanted something relaxing. Ray had the perfect idea of going to somewhere with a nice beach for our honeymoon, and Paris for our first anniversary. That first anniversary will be here in three days.

We waited on actually booking the trip. We obviously knew what date and week it would be, but my mom’s health was declining. Quickly. Drastically. And yet she was still holding on. What would happen if she passed while we were gone? But she kept urging us so many times, like her final wishes for me and Ray were to be happy and to travel. “You have to go to Paris.”

I should be way more excited than this. I should be ecstatic and happy like she wanted. We’re going to Paris! And yet somehow, it doesn’t feel right. I’ve had that city on a pedestal for so many years, but I’ve never felt so sad in my life with my mom gone. I’ve mentioned canceling the trip to Ray too many times to count, but he and every other person I’ve talked to said we need the getaway. You need time offYou ought to get away from here. You can always go back. I know, but I just want to feel happy there. I just want my mom here, really.

Somewhere along the way, I forgot the thing I’d always held to feel to be true.

Up upon Montmartre when she stops to rest awhile,
all the artists look at her and they long to paint her smile.
For even in her sorrow there’s something in her eyes…

Perhaps Paris will lift all the sorrow from my mom’s passing. So that the light that has come from my first year of marriage to the most amazing man by my side. There is nobody I would rather share that happiness with by my side, and he is the only person that could hold me together through all the sadness that’s come through my mom’s sickness and passing. Through sickness and in health. In good times and in bad. Whatever the traditional vows are. I vow all of it still. Ray is impeccable and I’m lucky as hell to have him in my life, let alone to be married to him.

I’m going to the City of Light with the source of so much light and happiness in my life, that it’s got to outshine the sorrow of my mom’s passing. Or as dear friend encouraged, instead of mourning my mom’s death, we’ll go in honor of her. We’ll celebrate the fastest year of marriage filled with the highest highs – got married, went to Tahiti and Bora Bora, bought a house, made it our own, became puppy parents, brought my mom to the Grand Canyon, planted her a garden – and lowest low I can ever imagine. And if we made it through that, we can make it through hell, because we’ve already been there and survived it together.

this guy. this guy is the guy i get to kiss for the rest of my life. even when my hair does insane things.

this guy. this guy is the guy i get to kiss for the rest of my life. even when my hair does insane things.

Ray, here is to you, to us, the life we’re building, the adventure we’re making, and every happiness the world can provide. Thank you for your love and support during the worst days of my life. Thank you for the promises you made to me on our wedding day, for the promises you made to my mom, and for keeping them. I love you and hope we find whatever it is we’ve been looking for up upon Montmartre. Even if it’s a new perspective.

Mom, in one day we’re going to make you so proud. You’ll be with us in spirit.

Tori

on love

Something has occurred to me. Something groundbreaking, earth-moving, sky-tumbling, heart-trembling (now I’m singing Carole King), and almost breathtaking. And it is so simple that I feel ridiculous for even stating it, but it’s something I’ve never really thought about before.

Saying “I love you” is the same exact thing as saying “thank you for being.”

mom, we love you the "mostest" and miss you even more

mom, we love you the “mostest” and miss you even more

People don’t say “I love you” enough. Out of fear that the sentiment might not be reciprocated. Out of fear that it might mean a relationship is important and real. Out of pain from the past. Something. But people don’t say those words enough. And people really need to hear them.

My husband and I met in a state that neither of us lived and dated long distance for well over the first year of our relationship. We talked a lot on the phone, via text, and on Skype and saw each other on the weekends as much as possible, given that we were both finishing up school at the time. He’d been to Boston to see me; I’d been to New York to see him. I loved him and was in love with him and I wanted to tell him that in person. But we were many miles away.

One night, we were planning on talking on Skype before bed, so I – he doesn’t know this – showered, did my makeup, did my hair, put on stylishly casual clothes (“Oh this? I was just sitting around the house in it.”  That’s a lie. I wear pajamas and definitely no bra when I’m at home), and we started to talk. We talked as usual. I don’t remember about what. And that was that. We said, “Good night,” and I probably looked like a giddy school girl in a push-up bra underneath a brand-new, just-cut-off-the-tags Pink sweatshirt and a healthy dose of mascara waving goodbye. Regardless, we ended the conversation.

I loved him and I wanted to tell him, but I really wanted to tell him in person. The first “I love you” and “I’m in love with you” are big deals. But I can’t keep a secret for the life of me. Especially not if it’s something I’m excited about. Which means, something overcame me, I called him back immediately on Skype, and blurted out those three little words. I said it. And he smiled. I was so mad at myself for not having the patience to tell him in person so that it’d be romantic and personal and perfect. But I needed him to know. And you know what? I’m really glad I told him, because he needed to hear it.

He said it back, and it felt so good to the core to know that the person I was thankful I had in my life, the person that had been a stranger only months before, was also thankful that I was in his. That’s all it means. It’s simple and it’s huge at the same time. I later told him that I was also in love with him, because it feels more passionate. Like, loving is to compassion as being in love is to passion. Anyway, they both apply to Ray. Sidenote: Ray, have I embarrassed you yet?

i love this man and am in deep and utter love with him. and good god, you're handsome.

i love this man and am in deep and utter love with him. and good god, he’s handsome.

I’m not saying we should all be “in love” with everyone. That’s different. I am in love with my husband and only my husband, but I love a lot of good people, funny people, and selfless people. I love open-minded and tolerant people. I remember telling one of my best friends from college who happens to be male, “I love you” and someone walking by asked me if he was my husband. It seemed oddly presumptuous to me at the time, but I get that those words seem to be reserved for significant others for most. My friend Mark drove two and a half hours to see my mom at her fundraiser, to drive two and a half hours home the same day. I appreciate his support and am so thankful he is the person he is. So “I love you” is very fitting.

my mom with her "boyfriend" mark

my mom with her “boyfriend” mark

More people need to know they’re appreciated. Any single day at any second in time, something bad can happen. A tragedy can come without warning. Your loved one might not wake up. This blog article could be the last thing on earth you ever read. So stop waiting to share how you feel before it’s too late. Tell the people you are grateful you have in your life that you love them. Tell them often. And don’t forget to tell the person who looks back at you in the mirror.

Thank you all for being. I love you. Same thing.

Tori

truth and the bright side

There was a story in the news about a woman in California who battled cancer and passed away at the young age of 61 like my mom. She passed away just three days after her son’s wedding. After dancing with her son at her son’s wedding when she barely had the strength for anything else. She got out of her wheelchair to dance. To the same Hawaiian version of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” that my family danced to at my wedding.

That hits a little too close to home for me. It’s way too familiar.

I’ve been told by several people that I do not share much about myself upon first meeting others. I pick and choose the safe things to share. I wait until I really trust you. And then I spill. And you’re sworn to secrecy.

So here’s some truth. I loved Ray before we even went on our first official date. I think I actually fell in love with him on the airplane when we first met. I’ve never felt so giddy and calm, nervous and confident, scared and hopeful at the same time. I’m not talking about lust, although Ray is beyond handsome. I’m not talking about puppy love, although we were both kind of still kids at the time. We kind of still are. Regardless. I’m talking about real, down-to-the-core, feel-it-in-your-gut, crossing-your-fingers-and-toes-it-will-last, honest, and pure love. The first time we met we talked about the future, we learned we want the same exact things in life. And I’m talking very specific things like getting married, having a family, living on the water. Important stuff. And scary stuff. Within hours of meeting. The stuff you don’t typically spill upon first meeting someone. Looking back, I have never trusted someone so immediately and fully as I trusted Ray with my truths and secrets.

Anyway. Fast-forward about two years of dating, moving closer to each other, then basically living with each other. Sure, we talked about the future. I think we talked about getting married around our third date. Someday, we’d get married. But at the beginning of November 2012, we weren’t actively discussing marriage; it was just a truth for us.

And then my mom got diagnosed with her brain tumor. She got diagnosed November 6, 2012. Ray couldn’t have been more *there* for me. For my family. He brought refreshments. He tried to calm my mom down and explain things to her in a not-so-scary way. He had to work while she went in for surgery, but he got there just in time for the surgeon to deliver the news. That she couldn’t get all of the tumor, that some of it was touching a blood vessel, that it looked “diffuse” which was a term I remembered from school that actually meant “not well defined” which meant “very bad” as far as tumors go. He just held me as I had a visceral reaction of retching and puking into a trash can in a library holding-cell where they keep families. He couldn’t have been more there for me.

A very wise friend once told me that tragedy makes us more of who we really are. At the time of my family’s tragedy, my boyfriend became my knight in shining armor. He became more him: more comforting, more assuring, more positive. When my mom had finally come home that month and I was sleeping at Ray’s apartment, I remember sobbing that one of my biggest fears was that I would never get to have my mom at my wedding someday. That I never really dreamed of my wedding as a little girl, but that the one thing I was certain of was that I needed my mom to walk me down the aisle. That I had one year left with her per statistics, and none of it would happen.

I don’t think Ray intended on making marriage a reality at that point in time. Okay, that statement is a weak version of the truth. Ray did not intend on making marriage a reality at that point in time. And I know that times are modern and I know that I could have proposed too, but I wanted to hear it from him. That night at the apartment, we talked, I felt like I was pressuring him into proposing, I felt like a pathetic and whining little girl, but my unprecedented and compassionate boyfriend said we would get married by the next fall. It was already the end of November. Spring would be too soon to plan a wedding, summer might be too, fall could work, winter would be too cold, and the following spring might be too late. We’d get married in fall of 2013. And that was that.

We picked out the engagement ring in December. Ray sat on it for a couple months to “surprise” me. And we got married in October, just under a year from the time of my mom’s diagnosis. We got married, as planned. With a full-on dream wedding as planned. Just sooner than planned. And my mom was there. She walked me down the aisle and we even danced together. And we never told her that we planned the wedding as quickly as possible so that she would be there. She asked why we were planning it so quickly, and we said we just really wanted to tie the knot as soon as possible. For no other reason than that.

The wedding day was perfect. Everything I ever could have asked for and more. I think Ray feels the same. But it was also incredibly bittersweet. Celebrating one of the happiest days of your life with the worst day of your life looming in the near future. A race against time, to be sure.

my mom was my something blue

my mom was my something blue

That was almost a year ago. My mom has passed since, as we kind of knew she would. Ray was even more supportive during her passing. He held her hand on car rides, helped with her activities of daily living, permanently invited her over our house for a vacation to the beach, and spent every single weekend with her with me. He even promised her that he’d take care of me before she left us. And Ray and I are approaching our first full year of being married. I’m married to the unprecedented, compassionate, comforting, assuring, positive, handsome, and wonderful man I met on the plane. I could not be more happy with him. My secrets and my truths are safe with him. Being able to marry him with my mom present was more than I ever could have hoped for, but especially when her diagnosis was a constant reminder of time ticking away. Ray fast-forwarded his life plan to help my dreams become reality. And I am forever grateful for him and his love.

If tragedy makes us more of who we really are, it just means I am more in love with my husband. And I’m talking about real, down-to-the-core, feel-it-in-every-fiber-of-your-being, uncrossing-your-fingers-and-toes-because-you-know-it-will-last, honest, and pure love.

Tori