When the news came you were in a hospice, we booked our tickets to come see you. The bus got stuck in traffic, and as the boat was fully booked, they closed the gate early and put us on the next one, six hours later, but it meant we couldn't see you until the next day. The ferry took us across the Irish Sea, then the train trough Wales. It was a bit of an adventure, yet solemn, it flew quickly.
The longest leg of the journey seemed the last bit, the shortest distance of it all, from north to south London. It seemed to take forever. You messaged to say you might be in a state when I got there, and to be patient.
Memories flooded my mind: of our first meeting where we realised we seemed to lead parallel lives, then our adventures that followed-queuing for proms, cooking Filipino food (Skyping our moms when something in the recipe went wrong), Mexican restaurants, concerts, the ups and downs of trying for kids, having kids, maternity leave, potty training....And, our plans to become tiger mums: you stuck to your guns and some how managed to pull it off graciously as a gentle tiger: strong and loving. I ended up being a typical American smorgasbord of wish-wash parenting styles: still working on it.
Our parallel lives lead us to different beliefs, and we respected each other. You were always supportive of others’ beliefs, and encouraging. You never pushed your beliefs on others. Well, except the time we were walking and you attempted to use reiki on my pregnancy fibroid and suggested yoga classes :D. I guess it balanced out when you let, and asked, me to pray for you later on.
You made every, sometimes extraordinary, effort to get along with everyone, I mean everyone. At the same time you were passionate: no half-way.
You came to visit when taking a break from chemo/radiation. It was probably one of the most fun weeks. We didn't do anything spectacular, but you said it was like a breath of fresh air: it was for me too. Instead of Filipino food, it was all health food (I don't know how we managed between both our diets!): juicing, veggies, making ‘ice cream’ out of frozen fruit (dude can you and Chiara eat ice cream!), and we finally got to check out the vegetarian restaurant my eyes were set on. You discovered the sea side as one of Dublin’s best kept secrets and the kids enjoyed playing in spacious green: man can your little girl dribble and kick a soccer ball! Emre still says his bed and the IKEA potties are Chiara’s :)
At the hospice we got to spend a bit of time outside, in the morning before it got cold. The plan was to teach you how to knit: after the first couple stitches, you fell asleep. I stayed and continued knitting, slightly hesitant and unsure if you wanted company, but were too polite say otherwise. When you woke up your first words were ‘Oh, I'm so glad you're still here!’. It was so hard not to break down right then. When it came time to leave in the evening, you invited me to stay longer and asked for prayer. The truth is I couldn't hold it together much longer and didn't want to fall apart in front of you and your beautiful, tired family. I could no longer hold back the tears, leaving the hospice, the whole journey home and through most the next week. They still come often.
When you were here, you were debating whether to brave it out without a wig. I thought the 80’s chick hairless look was sexy and you could pull it off. You challenged me to chop off my hair in your honour, and I wanted to donate it to charity. It wasn't quite long enough then. The morning of our flight for your funeral I visited the hairdressers and it still wasn't quite long enough. Linda, the hairdresser was so inspired by your story, that she said she would cut it for free, when it was the right length. Finally, 3 months later on the 3rd of December, it was long enough, cut and sent to the Little Princess Trust.
The day after you passed, the field behind my house, where we would walk when you came to visit, was full of wild flowers. They were there for only a short while, which reminded me how short this life is. But oh how beautiful you were made in your time. Something you used to say ALL the time, whether we lived in the same city, or apart was ‘I wish you were closer’. Now, dear Cheryl I wish you were closer.