Heartbroken

She was the most incredible of women. Smart, funny, and eternally happy. Everyone that knew her in ways big and small instantly liked her. She was, in a word, phenomenal.

She was a fiery redhead with the biggest heart and the most engaging laugh. She was always interested in anyone's stories, even those in which the most mundane details would bore the average person.

She loved children, and not having any of her own doted on all of her friend's and family's offspring. She was a second-mother and dear friend from the time of birth to the path through adulthood.

She was Baby Brother's godmother, a role which she took so seriously and in which she took such great joy.

She was a caregiver--in all aspects. Though she was a part of my life since I was 2, my earliest memory of her was when I was 5 and my mother was in the hospital giving birth to Baby Brother. She sat for us during the day, and we had great fun. And I know she did as well. Her dog gave birth to a litter of puppies the same day Baby Brother was born, so in the day's following she took Middle Brother and I to go see the puppies--and what a treat that was for little ones like us!

She adored family stories--hearing them or telling them. Her favorites were my favorites: Those which centered around my mother, her brothers, and the cousins. Those in which her husband and the boys would wreak havoc on the neigborhood. Those in which we all got the the biggest belly laughs.

She was a shopper. I was always invited along on those excursions with my Mom and her. Whether it was Water Tower, Woodfield, Stratford Square, or Oak Brook, I have many memories of traipsing through those malls with her by my side, always enjoying every last minute of those days. Every time I go to Oak Brook especially, I think of her. When I was little, I was always given the job of remembering where the car was parked. Whether she was humoring me or not, she always made me feel like a million bucks for getting us safely back to the car.

She remembered the little things: my childhood friends (which she still asked after), who I was dating, who I broke up with (and the real reason(s) why), and where their family was from to name just a few, as well as those fleeting comments that seemed unimportant at the time but were a level of detail after the fact.

She remembered every occasion regardless of importance, always quick to send a card or a thoughtful note.

She was a premier party hostess and adored family gatherings. Her smile was radiant; her laugh is something I will never forget.

She was a world traveler, and her passion for seeing new places and visiting old favorites was unmatched. When I began my career 11 years ago and began traveling the world, I would love to sit with her and discuss the places I've been and hear her stories. I am sure one of her favorites was her "homegrown" heritage tours to Ireland, a place I have yet to visit and now have an even greater passion to experience.

She tsk tsk tsk'd when she heard something bothersome or sad in lieu of the average person's "aww." Something I have since acquired (it has always seemed more sincere or composed).

She loved animals.

She had unmistakable flowery handwriting (and I wish so dearly that I had saved her last card).

She was my Mom's best friend. (And oh! My mother. How sharp her pain and sense of loss must be!) She could engage in the longest phone conversations with my Mom, and my Dad and I would tease them about them but it was no secret that I loved overhearing them; loved hearing the replay of all the news when it was over.

She took such joy in the little things. She gave the best hugs. She was safe and warm and eternally loving.

She was devout in her faith, and I always admired that quite a bit. And as I now battle with my faith, I wonder how through all of this she could have stayed so strong. Because I question right now what sick sense of humor God must have to let all of this happen. To her. To us. To everyone she touched. But really to her.

She was a wife and dear friend. She touched our loves...she touched my life. And my sense of loss is overwhelming.

She was a survivor, facing her last illness with incredible strength and fortitude. She was looking forward to being a cancer survivor.

The cancer isn't what killed her. It was the chemo. During her last treatment.

My family was alerted to the quick but quite serious situation Thursday evening, and though it didn't sound good I refused to think the worst. Not until someone told me in no uncertain terms that she was gone. She was a fighter.

Mary passed away Thurday night. On Friday afternoon, I was startled to hear her voice in my head- clear as day- telling me everything was alright. I was immediately comforted--and then immediately angry; mad that I should think this was a "sign" that she was gone; mad at myself for even letting my subconscious believe what no one had confirmed.

She was 62, and there were supposed to be many, many good years ahead of her. I was supposed to be able to see her again; experience her smiles and laughs and hugs and stories and tsks. She wanted to wait until after last week, when chemo was over and we could all celebrate.

I am a better person from knowing her and loving her and being loved by her.

I have shed an uncountable amount of tears and will shed many million more.

I love her and miss her.

Nothing will ever really be the same.

I am, in a word, heartbroken.