Dec 2018

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there

are

feelings.

you haven’t felt yet.

give them time.

they are almost here.

— fresh

from nayyirah waheed

As I’ve been reflecting of what this post would become, knowing that my mother passed away a year ago on December 3rd, I’ve struggled to find a way to eloquently relay the feelings and thoughts I’ve had in the last year of adjusting to her being gone.

Thankfully I have my journal, my notes, books, audio books, and friends to help me organize the craziness of thoughts bouncing around my head as I accepted, lived, remembered, grieved, remembered more, mourned, grieved, and continued to live my life. I didn’t follow the typical stages of grieving but I felt a few of those moments so strongly that I had forgotten who I was and where I came from and who I wanted to be. Never in my life had I been so consumed by sadness and happiness at the same time that I needed to give myself hours and days and weeks to breathe.

But this is what it’s like to adjust and move on from such tragedy in life. You live in it, float in it, jump in it, and be in it, without choice. You have no choice but to just feel and be and figure it out.

”Just Go With It” – Chromeo, Oliver

My mom took her last breath the early afternoon of Sunday, December 3rd, 2017. She was 50 years young. She was diagnosed with Stage IV cancer that had metastasized to many parts of her body that prohibited even the simplest of movements like getting up from bed. After she got diagnosed, she simultaneously received radiation and chemo to treat the aggressive nature of the cancer and she almost beat it. She almost beat it for 15 months.

She went through emergency brain surgery to remove a tumor that took her and everyone who supported her, by surprise. She survived brain surgery and tried to beat the continuously growing tumors in her body due to hospitalization and inability to receive treatment for 8 weeks. For 8 weeks she fought, she got better, but unfortunately wasn’t able to conquer what was killing her.

Levy Olivares fought her very best. I was there to see it. Many were there to see it. I believe that she didn’t choose to join the Kingdom of her God, but simply let the pain she felt from her organs shutting down and lifted them up so she can be relieved and free of pain. Her heart then stopped and that was it. Slow to breathe, gently beginning to settle into the new life of being with the angels above.

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Two days after the “Best Last Day” I was on the phone with my dad to talk about my mom’s current state. After Thanksgiving weekend, her condition started to drastically deteriorate. She had an infection and was showing early signs of liver failure.

That night, I went to my friend’s house to share this news. I told her that I had a feeling this was going to be it. I just had a feeling. Her liver was failing. What major organ was next? I had two days until I was back in LA again. I purchased a series of plane tickets as a gift to my mom so I’m with her. Thank goodness I did that.

As I packed my small 19” carry-on bag, I thought long and hard about what I should pack. Should I just pack for another weekend trip or pack for the end? I did both.

I packed for the weekend: two pairs of pants, three pairs of shirts, a pair of boots, and running shoes. I also packed for the end: an elegant black, boatneck Jones NY midi dress that I bought with my mom from Ross when I was working in wealth management and tan leather wedges and black and gold earrings from Tory Burch she bought for me on our last shopping trip just a few weeks before her brain tumor scare. I wanted to look put together and I also wanted to be prepared (hence the wedges for grass at the cemetery and dress with pockets for my phone and car keys). I also packed a pair of black Aritzia pants just in case I needed it for a night service (the vigil) and black Cole Haan kitten heels to match. How I planned for this at the time, I don’t know. I’m in awe that I even did this.

I arrived in LA Friday night, just 5 days after I saw her last. It was bad. She was fearful. She was tired. She was intubated and had a refrigerated blanket to keep her temp down. It was not good. I felt so helpless. I couldn’t do anything to “fix” her. I could only comfort her and be there with her, holding her hand. I could only give my dad hugs and give my brother kisses.

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That Sunday, when I received the text from my dad stating that my mom experienced a heart attack, I already knew what I needed to do and how I needed to be but it’s truly in these last few months that I have slowly figured out how to be without her physically here.

Thank you to my Tita for being in the car with me while I swallowed the news, called my friends, and picked up my brother from a conference. Your presence with me as I received that text and gathered my thoughts and drafted my plan of action was so crucial to my handling of things thereafter.

Thank you to the family and friends who were already there, thinking that it was going to be just a normal hospital visit in the ICU. Thank you to my Tito for being there for my dad as he received the news that his wife’s heart has stopped beating.

Thank you to my Ninang, Ninong, and Tita for your countless car rides to and from the hospital—for being our sounding board when we had to make difficult decisions and for making sure she was never alone. It’s sad our roles ended that day but from the bottom of my heart, thank you for being the best example of sibling love I have ever seen. Your dedication and love is inspiring and I’m proud to call you part of our village.

I am so thankful that when that December day came, our entire system was there to say our goodbyes. Her family was there to pray for her and be with her. Her friends were there to say their goodbyes. My friends were there to say how much her love for them impacted their lives. It’s amazing to think that when my mom joined the angels, she was never alone. She was loved and supported and cared for until the very end. She seemed to be at peace and that’s all we could wish for. Rest In Peace, my dear Momma. I’ll try to be a good cook for you and promise I’ll reach the heights you always wanted me to achieve in life and love.

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“O” – Coldplay

Recently, I had a conversation with a close friend about dealing with what comes after.

The worst day of my life was not when she passed but when I realized the reality that I now lived in was a reality where my mom is no longer and never will be. That was this past September. It took me 9 months to get to that point and 10 months for me to wrap my head around what happened and think about how to be after carrying the weight of this forced reality with me.

It was so painful–the sadness, the anger, the fear, the questioning, the uncertainty, the acceptance that the woman who gave you life is no longer here. But damn, I got through it.

I am still going through it–but now with a sense of peace as I find ways of doing things that remind me of her versus not doing anything at all and feeling things that I know she would want me to feel versus not feeling anything at all.

“breathin’” – Ariana Grande

It is really quite amazing to see how humans and life forms respond to tragedy. Flight or fight kicks in. Instinct.

“How did you get through it, Raelene?”

“I don’t know. I just did what I knew I needed to do or what I thought was best.”

When I look back at everything I experienced the last two years, I get exhausted but I am proud of myself in being resilient and trying to adapt to the change.

Here’s the last two years in a nutshell:

1. I left corporate finance at Boeing and switched industries to commercial real estate brokerage.

2. I went to LA to take care of my mom for a summer after she got diagnosed.

3. I got engaged and we got married (!!!) John, if you’re reading this, I love you.

4. I adjusted to having my mom back and treated her like my best friend again and not as my mom who is sick and is my patient.

5. I watched my mom reach new heights then deteriorate and almost make it out.

6. I saw my mom’s last breaths and said my final goodbye.

7. My family worked together to plan her funeral and her celebration of life.

8. We celebrated our first Christmas without my mom in Seattle. And my dad and brother got a sweet dog named Chester 🙂

9. John and I celebrated our first year of marriage. A few months later, we had our wedding celebration in LA where 170 family and friends gathered to celebrate us both. My mom was there in spirit, she was everywhere 🙂

10. Left commercial real estate and embarked on a new adventure back in corporate America at Starbucks. Thank you Digital Finance team for ignighting my fire and being my breath of fresh air!

11. I traveled to Europe with my best friends, had a trip of a lifetime, remembered and experienced the feeling of joy, and reconnected with my mom at the Vatican for the first time since her death. The Italian woman next to me in the chapel gave me her tissues and she shared that she recently lost her dad too. We both cried.

12. Came back to Seattle and John and I bought a house in the suburbs. Goodbye to the city life! I also bought a Prius! Woot!

13. I started a new role at Starbucks in Digital Marketing, entering a completely different industry from the finance worlds I was familiar with for 5 years.

And here I am now. Still growing and learning and feeling. And adjusting.

“My Life” – ZHU

I have learned that life is all about adapting to the constantly changing environment around you. The world will always turn and life around you goes on. And sometimes you fall and get back up. And sometimes you reach new peaks and grow. I will always want to grow, but now I have learned to slow down and find solace in the falls because it reminds me of where I came from and where I want to be. Grief demands it and it’s part of the journey of moving on.

As I approach a new year, I challenge myself to continue to give myself space to breathe and think, while also acknowledge that the pain and sorrow is of the past and this is a new chapter. This is the beginning of the rest of my life. I will forever carry her heart in mine. I’ll continue to be a daughter and friend to my dad. I’ll continue to be an Ate and friend to my brother.

I look forward to taking my experiences from 2018–my growth year—and applying them all to make a better, stronger me.

“Best of Us Go Down” – Aquilo

Lastly, as I move on and leave the pain behind, I want to thank every single person who has reached out with support and love. These last few years, I have drawn strength from many of you, who have reminded me of my age, my humanity, and my needs as such.

Thank you for the dozens of prayer groups that held my mom in their thoughts, for these friends and strangers also gave my mom strength to overcome and fight.

Thank you for the friends and family friends who have become permanently etched in my heart as family. You are all so amazing and it brings me tears to feel your kindness even as my mom has passed. You are her fighters, someone’s hero, someone’s brother and sister.

Thank you to my friends for holding me in times when I couldn’t keep myself up. Thank you for crying for me when I couldn’t feel sadness and just felt anger and confusion. Thank you for loving me when I didn’t know who I was and unsure of how to find myself. Thank you for responding and for following up. Thank you for showing up. I love you forever for that.

To my husband, thank you for your unconditional love—for fulfilling the idea and turning it into something tangible. Out of choice, you always chose me and chose us. You believed that I will recover and will return to the woman who was full of life. Because of your love and support, I believed in myself. So thank you for never giving up, always forgiving me in times when I projected anger towards you and always asking how you can help. Thank you for letting me be me and accepting me as I am and for showing me joy and laughter when it was hard for me to see other than dim and darkness. I love you infinitely, now and forever. Here’s to the rest of our lives together as we approach the celebration of our second year of marriage!

As I close this chapter and enter a new one, I hope you’ll follow my journey of discovering self and experiencing the new. It’s quite weird to feel like I’m turning back the clock because for years I felt like I was a 40 year old in a 20 year old body. Now I can figure out how to be a normal 20-something and see what’s out there!

“show me” – San Holo

In loving memory of Librada “Levy” Balagtas Olivares

01.18.67 – 12.03.17

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Role Reversal // Nov 2018

Reflections

Selfless (adj.) –

Concerned more with the needs and wishes of others than with one’s own; unselfish.

‘an act of selfless devotion’

Levy Olivares was a devoted mother, wife, friend, sister and daughter. She was loyal and loving and she was fierce when it came to caring for those she kept close to her heart. It only seemed fitting that I grow as a adult holding these qualities while honoring her spirit.

I learned about what it meant to be selfless the summer I temporarily moved back to LA after graduating from college to care for my sick mother. I learned what devotion meant. I learned what love meant. I learned what the circle of life was. I learned this through the switch of roles we experienced with one another. I was now caring for her as she did for me for 22 years.

“To care for those who once cared for us is one of the highest honors” – Tia Walker, author

I was at my Filipino Graduation dinner on the Tuesday of graduation weekend when I got the phone call from “Momma Olivares” at 6:50pm, 10 minutes before the dinner was supposed to start. It was to celebrate me and my graduating class from the Filipino club I’ve been a part of the past four years of college. My friends were with their families and my two best friends were coming to support me in the absence of mine.

My mom, dad, and brother were planning on flying to Seattle that Friday, staying until graduation until Sunday afternoon, which was also my dad’s birthday. Then we were going to fly back to LA together, have a quick grad dinner nearby with the rest of our family, and from there I would get dropped off at the International terminal at LAX to leave for my six-week Asia trip I had saved up for 6 months.

Only my dad and brother were able to make it that weekend.

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When I got the phone call that Tuesday night, I was already nervous. I knew to expect a phone call from my mom because my parents had more news about her cancer diagnosis. Just the day before we were informed that she had Stage IV Breast Cancer.

What we knew so far in the past three weeks of doctor appointments:

They found a mass on her breast. (3rd week of May 2016)
The mass is cancerous. (4th week of May)
She has cancer of the breast. (May 30th)
It’s Stage IV Breast Cancer (May 31st)

We had follow-up questions:

How bad was it?
She’s in so much pain she can’t even sit up or stand. Has it spread? She was just walking last week.
How aggressive was this cancer?
How much time did she have?
What can we do?

I answered the call. On the other line was my mom. She asked how Fil Grad was going. I said Rachel and John are coming. I was straight to the point. I asked her what they found out.

“It’s everywhere, Anak. I am so sorry.” – Momma

“What do you mean everywhere?” – Me

Sobbing, pain, moaning in the background. No response.

“What does this mean?” I asked differently.

Things started to get hazy for me. I felt like I couldn’t breathe and sat down on the side of the Hall while the dinner was continuing on.

I think my dad was the one who told me and answered my questions.

This is what I learned:

The cancer has metastasized. It has spread to other parts of the body.
Aside from her breast, it spread to these areas:
1. Her ribs
2. Her lungs
3. Her pelvis
4. Her hips
5. Her T7-T9 spine
6. Basically her entire thoracic cavity.

F**K. It’s no wonder she can’t walk and she’s in agonizing pain.

After speaking with my Tita who was a nurse and from that point forward our medical translator, I made the decision to hold off on my Asia Adventure, turn down my post-grad job offer and instead spend that time home in LA, taking care of my mom.

I made the phone calls to Hong Kong and the Philippines to let my relatives know why I can no longer come.

My mom’s wishes were to keep this private and to pray for her. So they did. Thank you for supporting our family and respecting our privacy during that time. You know who you are. 🙂

That summer 2016 was grueling. It was so traumatizing and de-moralizing that I can barely remember what I did and what my mom went through. All I know is that we did it, with my family’s help and with the supportive of our close-knit community. You know who you are. Thank you so much for being there for her and for us. 🙂

I took care of my mom. I fulfilled my duties as a daughter and it had come full circle. After two months of non-stop chemo and 10 rounds of radiation, my mom was still alive thanks to modern medicine and those who cared for her—Her “angels” as she would call them.

The memories I do have are both painful and beautiful.

Growing up, I would visit family friends who owned care homes and I had an idea of what this would be like but never imagined that I would be doing what the caregivers did at age 22. I imagined I’d be doing it at 60! But I made the choice to be there for my mom.

I wiped her butt. I cleaned up her messes. I gave her baths. I fed her. I administered her medication. I would clean up the messes she’d make in public bathrooms. I kept her distracted. I told her it’s okay. I told her it’s just a little mess and wipes will clean it up.

I drove her to doctor’s appointments. I memorized the perfect routine to the different medical destinations so that we can drive with the smoothest roads and the least amount of potholes and bumps. I learned to be patient and drive at 30 mph when the limit was 45 mph so there was less of a chance for painful, abrupt stops.

I helped her get up from bed even though she would be screaming from the pain with every degree she gained as her tumor-filled body lifted from the mattress. I learned to drown that sound so I could concentrate on carefully lifting her with minimal pain. I asked the radiation nurses on what their techniques were for patients like my mom and on what medical products we should buy to ease the pressure on her broken spine.

With the help of my Ninang, we prepared meals that were healthy and were advised for cancer patients. She needed food high in iron because she was anemic. She needed protein because she could barely keep her food in even though she was hungry. She missed tasty Filipino food but I told her no. She can’t have it, but she loved me for being a hard ass.

There were good times too, though. I made her laugh. I gave her kisses. I told her she could do this. I made her believe that she’s a warrior–that she had dignity and purpose. I told her stories. I held her hand. She had hope.

In her better times, she’d allow others to visit her so long as they promised not to cry, not to wear perfume, and didn’t bring fragrant flowers. Eventually her best friends were notified of her condition and they even flew out to visit her. I learned what it meant to be best friends during those times I’d watch my mother spend time with her friends.

When she was able to get up from bed again, my brother and I took her for a short drive to a parking lot by the ocean. She wanted to smell fresh air but knew the beach was too far of a drive. As we sat in the car with the windows rolled down, we just sat there quietly as our mother closed her eyes and smelled the scenery around her.

My Ninang and I would switch shifts at night when I would sleep or she would sleep and someone would be near her door to answer when the bell rang so we knew she needed help so my dad can try to sleep. He always wanted to sleep next to my mom even though they could only hold hands and my mom was moaning in pain 70% of the time. My Ninang and I gave them that space. My dad would come home tired from work after being in the road for 12 hours and it gave my mom joy to be reunited with him after a hard day.

Almost everyday was a hard day.

Before bed, my mom would listen to a prayer series on her phone until she fell asleep. She looked to God for guidance and strength when she didn’t have any and it worked for her. People would come over and pray over her and she felt moved. So thank you to those who did that for her. You know who you are 🙂

When I woke up from my 6am alarm, I’d be lucky to have gotten 5-6 hours of uninterrupted sleep. My mom was in pain and she had so much fear for the future because of it. But damn that woman is strong and she got better, even for a little.

But honestly most of the time I was in LA, I was a freaking robot. It’s taken me two years to even begin remembering what transpired that summer. It was instinct and devotion that gave me the ability to care for my mom and stay sane.

There was one distinct beautiful memory I take with me whenever I think of my mom’s love and when I ask myself if I did enough after she died.

Around July 2016, after 10 rounds of back-to-back radiation and a few weeks of chemo, my mom was able to stand again and she was strong enough to hold herself up for a bath.

When I gave my mom a bath, a real bath in the shower and not with wet towels and wipes, she was so reinvigorated and happy. Her “ahhhhhs” and “ooohhhhs” made me laugh and she was in pure bliss. “I feel like I’m in a spa. Thank you, Anak!” She said.

As I helped her out of the shower and began to dry her fragile body, I was thinking “Wow, I can’t believe this is happening.”

I just gave my 50 year old mother a bath.

I avoided eye contact with her while drying her so I wouldn’t show emotion during this pivotal moment in our relationship. But I eventually made eye contact with her, seeing her gratitude while gently wiping her face dry with a towel.

She said, “Thank you Anak for taking care of me. I used to give you baths and now you’re giving me a bath. I didn’t want this to happen so soon when you’re so young.”

I replied, “Of course Momma. I’m your daughter, it’s my job to take care of you because you took care of me.” That’s all I could say back before I knew I would start to show emotion behind my eyes–something I kept from her to be strong for her.

She recognized my pain and my sacrifice and I am forever thankful for that.

Because of that moment I have no regrets on how things transpired with my mom and it gave me the strength to continue on for another year and half until I saw her very last breath and knew I couldn’t do anything more for her.

But that story is for later. I wanted to end with this memory.

This beautiful memory of parent and child. Hug your kids and tell your parents you love them.

Thank you Momma, for giving me the honor of caring for you. It’s the least I can do in return for raising and caring for me. Miss you everyday!

Happy Wellness Wednesday!

I plan to release snippets of my reflections and thoughts every Wednesday so as to recharge my mind and prepare for the rest of the week to come. As I sift through my memories and share the good, the bad, and the ugly, my intention is to promote self-care and self-discovery as we walk, crawl, skip, and run through life.

This blog is meant to be an open space where I share my deepest thoughts, while remaining poised for the Internet and to strangers who may not know me but are reading my story.

This is an evolving blog, with the eventual goal to inspire those to share, to be present, to find balance, and to be fearless.

We all have a story and I am choosing to share mine with you all.

Thank you for your interest! Comment below or contact me if you want to chat 🙂

Ten months // Oct 2018

Reflections

My first try at sharing my thoughts with the world wide web.

“The Unknown” — ford.

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It’s taken me ten months to finally open up about the struggle of adjusting to a life where the woman who gave me life is no longer here.

A year ago today, on Monday, October 9th, 2017, I was in the ICU at Harbor-UCLA Medical Center in Carson, CA, trying to find a way to communicate with my mom through sound and touch. She was in a medically-induced coma following an emergency surgery the day before to remove a tumor the size of your palm from the left hemisphere of her brain.

Look at your hand. Isolate your palm. That’s the size of the tumor attached to the dura (lining that protects the brain) in my mom’s head. This small detail that it’s attached to the dura and not the brain, gave my family hope. Hope that she might be able to recover with minimal damage to the brain and live the life she wanted to live. Just a few weeks ago she had a thoracic x-ray done that showed only tiny tumors left from her metastatic breast cancer diagnosis from June 2016. We all had hope she was going to be the miracle case that doctors would talk about when telling their patients about survival rates after being diagnosed with Stage IV cancer. She wanted to beat it so badly.

But at this point in time, we’ve been holding on to this word for almost a year and a half. This word hope. We’ve been attached to this word hope, thinking that it would make things better and help us deal with the tragedy in front of us. My mom was dying and the word hope didn’t give me comfort–instead it made my angry. It made me feel like I was living in a false reality where every good person lives to tell the tale of how they survived cancer. But I am a realist. I knew the chances, the risks, the hard future ahead no matter the outcome. After October 9, 2017, I didn’t use that word anymore to describe how I envisioned the future state of my mother and my family.

It got really dark after I left that ICU a year ago today.

I was scheduled to return Seattle on Wednesday, October 10th after taking an emergency flight to LA after hearing about my mom’s life-threatening condition.

Just two days before, on Sunday, October 8th, 2017, I was on a beautiful hike in the North Cascades with on my good friend from high school and her girlfriend. The day before the hike, on October 7th, I was told of the nasty tumor that invaded my mom’s head. Her condition was quickly deteriorating…we didn’t know how much time she had before the tumor in her head would kill her so she was scheduled for surgery on that Tuesday.

It was supposed to be on Tuesday, October 10th that she’d have the surgery to remove the nasty tumor. Instead, it was on Tuesday that I left the room that housed my mother and 5-6 other ICU patients fighting for their lives.

The scene I left behind was my dad trying to talk to my mom, telling her how strong she is, how she’s going to get through this, and how much my dad needs her to fight. It was her second time with cancer and the second time they were going through this together…they can get through anything. They’ve been together since they were 18. My mom just celebrated her 50th birthday that January 2017.

My mom was intubated, eyes swollen shut, head wrapped in inches of cotton and cloth to reduce the swelling of her brain. I took a photo if this heartbreaking scene and as much as I want to share this powerful image with you, I will keep it private so as to respect the intimacy between my mom and dad.

Around 8pm, just an hour before I left the ICU for the night (they were closed to visitors at 9pm), my mom communicated with me. I was with my Tita (aunt and godmother), my mom’s sister-in-law, when she communicated with me. I was talking to her telling her “Mom, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand or wiggle your toes for me.” I repeated this many times, waiting for the moment where her sedatives and pain medication would wear off just enough for her to regain consciousness and hear my voice.

For over 24 hours after the surgery she lay motionless, but on this night, she was moving so we knew she was aware and her brain was still functioning.

I repeated the task I gave her. “Mom, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand or wiggle your toes for me.”

For a year and a half, my immediate and extended family sacrificed everything to take of my mom. I sacrificed the summer I graduated from college to be her caregiver when I was supposed to travel through Asia for 6 weeks as a graduation present for myself and from my parents.

When I left to go back to Seattle, my Ninang (godmother), her older sister, stayed in LA to take care of her.

My Ninong (godfather), her older brother, would drive my mom to her countless appointments and chauffeur my little 17-year old brother to his extracurricular activities to relieve my Ninang.

My Tita would come over to give her shots before blood tests so she can be healthy enough for another infusion. My mom had infusions every three weeks since she was diagnosed up until the discovery of the brain tumor.

My dad was the sole provider, working 12 hour days, almost 7 days a week to provide for my mom and brother and keep a roof over their heads.

This was a night we gathered around her to make sure that she knows she is not alone. That we are there for her, no matter what. We were all a team, rooting for Levy.

My mom was fierce, but when she was weak, she would turn to me for strength and support. I was her best friend and though it took me awhile to accept this, she was mine. I had always been a daddy’s girl but my mom needed me and I needed her to be here for me to guide me through life.

Everyday, we’d say good morning and we’d say goodnight. She’d talk to me about her pain. I would tell her to keep moving and take her meds. She’d talk to me about her sadness. I would tell her that she has lots to look forward to like me getting married and my brother graduating from high school. She’d talk to me about her dreams. I would tell her to keep on fighting because she’s freaking superwoman and the world needs people like her. She’d talk to be about her fears. I would tell her that at the end, I’ll be there to make sure everything will be okay. She made me promise. I always promised and I intend to keep them. For her.

“Mom, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand or wiggle your toes for me.”

She moved her toes. My GOODNESS! Yes! She moved her toes! She can hear me! She knows that I am here! She’s conscious and she can understand my command!

“Do it again,” I told her. She did. Gosh, I was so proud of her. DAS MY MOMMA!

I started to tear up from the overwhelming relief. Then I stopped myself from forming actual tears, knowing that showing weakness in front of her was something she didn’t want to see from me. I needed to be strong for her. For my dad. For my brother. I need to keep it together.

Knowing that she could hear me, I knew that I could leave for Seattle and come back and she would be fine. At least for another week, maybe two. She’s alive and conscious and as long as she continues her recovery, she will be okay.

I wasn’t ready yet for her to be gone. She wasn’t ready yet to leave. Not today you aren’t, Momma!! You keep fighting.

I arrived back in my family home and prepared for my early 6am flight the next day. I booked my flight to come back to LA to visit her in two weeks. Then, I finally went to sleep. I woke up at 4am on Wednesday, October 11th, flew back to Seattle and continued on my seemingly great and normal 23-year old life.