For Marin's Mother, One Year Later

I'll never forget the phone call for the rest of my life. I knew something was horribly horribly wrong. As I answered, my heart sank into my stomach. Somehow I knew what you were going to say. With some kind of inhuman strength, you told me you had to decide to let go of your sweet baby Marin. After 13 days of fighting like a champion, she couldn't hold on any more. I had no words of consolation. What do you say to a mother about to lose their only child? There's nothing to say. There's no consolation. Only empathy, or at least sympathy. When we hung up, I wept and wept and Addy brought me the Oma Judy angel necklace and I believed, for a minute, again, in something spiritual and beyond us. To have something to hold onto that represented my mother's spirit, and could somehow connect to Marin's spirit was so powerful, and to come from my own daughter was perfection.

For those 12 days, we saw you frequently. We did laundry, we watched you eat, we watched you make milk for your baby. Every day I wished there was more I could do. No amount of chicken or detergent could solve the problem you had. It is hard to feel helpless when your best friend's heart is breaking. I didn't meet Marin in person, but I felt like I knew her. I still do. Seeing you those days made me love her deeply, because you did. You do.

Then the worst day. I waited for the news, wishing I could do something, anything, to ease the pain or make this nightmare end. When the text came from Paul, I began weeping. Stepping out into the busy hallway of the first day of school, I cried out for our friend. I told her what happened. We embraced in this hallway, amid naive high-schoolers. I didn't stop crying for a long time. I shared the message with our team, who so passionately worried about you, and Mike, for whom we were all passionately worrying. The moments passed in surreality. No way this could be true. But it was. It is.

The last year has been tumultuous to say the least. I am nothing but proud of your strength and courage every day of your life. I'm in awe of your self-analysis and the extreme dedication to healing. Very few can understand what you are actually feeling through this, both then and now, but I feel like this has been an immense year of growth and self-discovery. And I feel privileged to be here next to you as you wade slowly through it.

I have visions of you. And there's a baby. And she's yours. The images are so vivid and so real that I know they are true. She's not Marin. No one will ever be. But there is a baby. And she's also yours. I can't predict the future, and I'm not trying to. The feeling is very convincing though. The faith is strong. The spirituality is strong. No God, no Jesus. But there is Oma Judy. And there is Marin. And there is Grandma. And now there is Grandpa. In whatever realm of reality they exist, they are never far away, when we think of them and mourn them and mostly, when we celebrate them.

Hold on, my friend. Though the days shall, as they say, pass, this will not. It must not. We hold Marin so close in our hearts in everything we do; for what she taught us (love, gratitude, fragility, mortality), what she continues to teach us (inspiration, hope), and what the future holds (sister, brother). She taught you what love feels like. And the most excruciating loneliness on earth. And you keep going. You keep learning. You keep evolving. Every day you are stronger. Every day I learn from you.

My eyes are wet with tears, of course. No words can actually express the depth of emotion here. It's enough just to say her name. And feel it echo in your head and in your heart..... forever...... Marin......