Happy birthday, mom.

Today would be your birthday...which also means you've now been gone six months.  I will still call the house just like I have for the last 20+ years but it will be to check on Vern, not to wish you happy birthday.  Almost a year ago, I stood on the sidewalk outside the house, breathing in the fresh country air.  "Make sure you're still here when I come back", I said as I wrapped my arms around you.  I knew there was a chance that was the last hug you'd ever give me, so we lingered a moment.  I took a deep breath in, capturing your scent - the smell most dear to me, the smell that I will forever connect to a sense of deep, protective comfort.  I blinked back the tears as we started to pull away from one another - you'd seen me cry a million times, but this didn't need to be one of those times.

"I love you kiddo.  I'm so proud of you."

"I love you too, mom."

You have been "mom" to me for so many years that it's hard to remember where it all started: I think my first memory of you is from the start of fourth grade.  School was still held in Fergie's basement, and I remember seeing you at the back of the room (probably taking pictures).  I think it was your height (or lack thereof) that I noticed first - I loved that you were so short.  I think that's the only memory I have of you as an outsider - it wasn't long before you were just "Diane", then "mom".  Pathfinders started soon after, and I quickly realized you were unlike any other woman I had ever met.  You didn't wear makeup, your preferred method of hemming your jeans was what you called the "walk down method", and your sense of humor was compatible with mine.  In retrospect, I think you were the first woman I ever truly identified with - when you told me that you became an archaeologist because it meant you could wear jeans and play in the dirt, I knew I'd met a kindred spirit.  As the years went by, I only learned to love you more.  Being around you instilled in me the belief that being a girl didn't mean I could not do something myself, or dream big.  You taught me big life lessons, too: it was reassuring to know I wasn't the only girl in the world who struggled to relate to and understand her mom...and years later, when Grandma Helen adopted me as well and I got to know her better, it gave me hope that someday my own mom and I could reconcile.

There are a million memories that go through my mind if I just sit here for a moment, and a million things will always remind me of you: arrowheads, wolves, huskies, the smell of Bengay, the sight of red Gatorade.  I remember you running out during the Warm Lake Camporee and pointing out that we were sitting under shade tarps being held up by metal poles...in the middle of a lightning storm (good call on sending us all scrambling).  I remember crying in the parking lot of the church the year I lived with Fergie - you wrapped your arms around me and I felt so safe...and after I soaked one of your shoulders you just gently switched me over to the dry one.  I remember the look of relief on your face when I finally stumbled back into the campground during the Anthony Lakes Camporee - I had gotten lost from the group during an epic game of hide and seek in the middle of the woods.  I remember the night you gave me Blue Eyes, the little stuffed husky that had gotten you through tough times, and which you were trusting to help me through tough times - I felt so loved, cared for, understood, and supported.

I could always count on you for so many things.  You always loved me and took care of me.  You always told me you were proud of me.  I could always count on you to tell me when/if you were disappointed in me, but it was always in a good way - it was always said in a way that made me know that I screwed up and that you'd expected better, but it also always communicated that you believed in me and knew that I could do better.  You always listened.  You always advised.  You always comforted.  You always reminded me of how far I had already come, encouraging me to keep moving forward.  I have more cards/postcards/letters from you then from anyone else - no matter where I was, you always found me and kept the line of communication open one way or another.  Because you loved me, you always loved the people I loved even if you never met them - care packages with Sarah Kate's name also on the recipient line always meant more to me than things sent just for me.

You fought so well, mom.  You faced diagnoses and your own mortality with a grace and faith that was unwavering.  It breaks my heart that you suffered for so long...but I was and am so very proud of how you always ultimately trusted your path to God.  I will forever thank God that I had the chance to say goodbye - we had a lot of hard conversations over the years, but that one was hands-down the hardest.  The end became very imminent, and hearing you say the words "I'm dying, kiddo" ripped my heart apart in a way I never imagined possible.  After we'd said our goodbyes I hung up the phone not knowing how to feel or what to think.  The next day I called to check on the guys...and you were suddenly lucid.  I had you in my life for 21 amazing years, but it was the last 10 seconds I will always cherish most: hearing you ask to speak to me, and exchanging one final round of "I love you"s - I hung up the phone feeling a peace I hadn't felt the day before.  I hung up the phone thinking the words that were always true, and for which I will forever be grateful to you for - I hung up thinking:

"my mom really loves me".

Our fearless leaders, cameras at the ready as always.

I'm pretty sure this was taken at the 1998 Camporee -
the one where I got a concussion from the port-a-potty door...?