Love can make you feel incredible.

It can warm you like a cozy sweater.

Sometimes it can break your heart.

But love–real love–is unconditional.

Like the love between a boy and his dog.

Did you know how much I adored you?

Did you know that all these years later I can remember specific moments we spent together as clearly as the crisp days they occurred.

Maybe the memories seem clearer than they are because I have photos tucked away in an album. There I am looking at you with a big smile. Or there’s the one where we’re playing not realizing we’re being photographed.

*sigh*

I had such a thing for older men then.

Or was it your twin brother Richard. It was always hard to tell you apart. Who knows. I was only five.

This memory is brought to you thanks to my friend Jennifer who was remember her own Robert today.

My parents divorced when I was 10.

I hesitated on that first sentence for a few seconds, because I have a difficult time referring to my initial father figure as my “parent.” I’m pretty sure he fed me and clothed me and loved me to the best of his ability, but his best just didn’t hold up. As a matter of fact, he ran dry on parenthood after twelve years or so.

He probably should have just adopted a dog.

My mom and I often discussed her first marriage as I was growing up. She had moved home right after nursing school because she had no money. Without money, she was without a car–and therefore a job. Without a job, she couldn’t afford a down payment for an apartment, so she married her high school sweetheart. She knew he wasn’t the right guy, but she felt like it was her only option.

My mom’s greatest wish for me was to grow up and gain the skills to be independent. She wanted me to fall in love, she wanted me to get married, she wanted me to have children, but not because I had no other choice.

The constant refrain when it came to dating or marriage was: Never commit to someone you want to change, because they never will.

When it comes to your children though things are different. You can’t walk away when your child makes awful decisions. You must try, as you have from the time they were small, to teach them the skills to make good choices.

But what if they never learn?

My sister’s battle with addiction began when she was an early teen. More than twenty years later, it’s still a constant battle. My parents (my whole family) went through all the stages–some taking much longer than others–denial, embarrassment, guilt, enabling, anger, support, grief and begrudgingly after many years and much heartache–acceptance.

There was nothing we could do to change my sister.

We couldn’t “fix” her no matter how badly we wanted to.

The choice to get better or let addiction claim her life was hers to make. All we could do was love her. We didn’t have to like who she was when she was using, all we could do was love the girl behind the addict.

So how do I reconcile these two messages about relationships? Honestly, until I started writing this post, I had never thought about the ways they contradict each other. Don’t love someone you want to change, yet you can still love someone even though you know you have no power to change them.

I guess I’m going to choose to focus on the central theme: love.

It would be tempting to ration the love I’m willing to share knowing how little control I have over the people I choose to give it to, but that’s not me. I just have to remember to give it freely –never with any strings attached–because they may just drag me places I don’t want to go.

This post was inspired by Julie’s Hump Day Hmmm. Check them out.

I’ve treated my body and face as the enemy for so long. They always disappointed me. I’m always trying to change them. I’ve never been willing to love them for who they are.

It’s pretty hard to properly nurture someone you don’t love.

Over these past few weeks, I’ve been more dependent on parts of my body I hadn’t given much thought to previously. Not being able to use one part has forced me to develop a relationship with others.

And you know what I discovered? They were here for me all along, and I took them forgranted.

My grandmother has lost most of her words. After watching her cholesterol for years and denying herself her beloved chocolate, it was her mind that went before her body. Alzheimers has robbed my grandmother of her personality, her memory and her words. Despite this, I remember some of them very clearly.

I don’t remember how old I was exactly when we had the conversation, but I couldn’t have been more than five or six. I imagine it must have started by me questioning why she always told me she loved me. I probably wanted to run and play but was delayed by her just wanting a hug. I don’t remember.

However it started, my grandmother told me a story that has stuck with me forever, and I bet that even if she did remember who I was now, she would have no idea how much it’s influenced how I communicate with people I care about.

My grandma was born and raised in Scranton, PA. Her grandfather was a Welshman who came to America to work in the coal mines. At some point after getting married, she moved to Connecticut with her new husband who was soon shipped off to war. She moved back to PA to live with her father, her two, much younger baby brothers and her brand new baby girl–my mom. My grandfather was gone for two years during which time my grandmother ran her father’s house–her mother having died years before. With the war over and my grandfather safely home, she returned to CT and her relationship with her father was conducted over frequent trips home and the phone. She had another little girl, the 60’s came and life was busy. She and my grandfather saved their pennies and built their own house from a plan they bought from a catalogue. Her dad came to visit her in her new house too. I’ve seen pictures of him celebrating there on my mom’s 16th birthday. Not too much time later, back in PA, he died.

My grandmother had spoken to her dad on the phone the day before he died. There had been no indication that he was ill. They were making plans for her to come down soon. She ended the call and told him she’d see him soon. She didn’t tell him she loved him. And I don’t think she’s ever forgotten that–even now.

So years later, when her precocious granddaughter asked her why she always told her she loved her, her response was simple.

The last time I talked to my dad I didn’t tell him I loved him. I didn’t think it would be the last time I talked to him. He died and I didn’t get the chance to tell him. I don’t know if he knew I loved him. I can’t ever let that happen again. You never know when you talk to someone that it may be for the last time.

Last weekend my best friend lost her thirty-eight year-old brother to a complication related to a surgery that occured a month before. He died in the hospital, by himself, in the middle of the night before she and her parents could get to him. The other night, she cried as she lamented the fact that she didn’t get the chance to say goodbye–or to tell him how much she loved him. She worried aloud that he might not have known.

That night as I got ready to pull away, she told me she loved me. And I told her I loved her too.

I was the kid who couldn’t fall asleep at night if I thought my parents were mad at me. I actually threw up once because my mom left for her night shift at the hospital not happy with me for something I’m sure I pulled as she was trying to get to work.

I tell people I love that I love them. I tell my kids all the time. Ask them, they’ll tell you. I say it in cards. I write it in emails. I don’t end a phone conversation with anyone I love without telling them so and making sure they heard me.

I just can’t take the chance that it’s the last conversation I may have with them.

When the diagnosis first comes the emotions can be overwhelming.

When treatment begins a sense of hope begins to flicker.

When treatment begins to fail we say all the words we need to say.

Even though we prepare ourselves, even when we know it’s coming, then end always shocks the system.

This fine gentleman left our world yesterday, but not without leaving a gift for us all in his daughter.

Kris, you and your family are in my thoughts.

Dad’s at it again.

Hi there Son,

Lotsa love, Dad

Of course I had to be the one to break it to Dad that she’s married and totally into the whole healthy living thing. Poor man. He just wants one ridiculously wealthy child–even if he needs to pimp his one and only son out to get one.