The last day I ever got to talk to you. I’ll never forget the look in dad’s eyes when I told him that the dr didn’t think you would make it through this. You were so concerned about your phone, but you kept dropping it. After I took this pic, I started calling all your friends and family in Chicago to let them know what was going on…it was surreal to tell someone that your mother is dying. You lost consciousness that day around 6pm.

The non invasive life support you were kept on for 5 days. This kept you breathing, but never brought you back. Dad didn’t want to give up. Always believing in PMA, he wouldn’t let anyone say anything negative around you.

Dad sat here 5 days straight, not leaving your side once.

Dad wanted to lay in bed with you one last time.

20 minutes before dad let the nurses take you off life support.

The drs swore once the life support was removed you would die within a couple hours. Dad insisted that since you kept holding on, you would pull through this. He quickly arranged for you to come home on hospice not realizing hospice meant they were sending you home to die. He thought he was going to nurse you back to health.

When dad finally realized you were sent home to die, he had me call all of your drs trying to get them to order home health care for you. They all refused because they knew you were already gone and to provide nutrition would only be prolonging the inevitable. It was devastating telling dad that.

I sat with you that night, watching Survivor with you one last time. I’ve never watched it since. I can’t…

I came over early the next morning. Everyone was in the kitchen. I went to sit by you, but I could tell something wasn’t right. I couldn’t get a heart rate reading on the monitor and you were breathing erratically.

While everyone was running around the house frantically calling 911, I sat by you, holding your hand. I didn’t want you to be alone. I saw you take your very last breath…I saw you leave us for good.

You were pronounced dead by the EMT at 10:15am on March 27, 2018.

The very last time I ever got to see you. When I worked in the photo lab I always judged people who took pics at a funeral, not anymore. I don’t think you looked like yourself.

Absolutely NOTHING can prepare you for seeing your parent in a casket. I collapsed to the floor crying, Connor had to come pick me up. It was one of the lowest points of my life.

You were cremated that night. I picked that outfit out for you. I wear a locket that has some of your ashes in it. You’re always with me…