“The idiom "the other shoe drops" refers to the anticipation of an inevitable, usually negative, event. It implies that after one thing has already happened, there's a sense of waiting for a second, related event to occur, often with a negative connotation.”

Who knew there was another shoe?

On May 26th, 4 months after losing my sister, I lost my mother. 

Shocked. Devastated. Shattered. Forever heartbroken.

No, the cancer didn’t come back. No, she wasn’t sick.
She simply could no longer carry the weight of her grief.  

Her greatest joy in life was being a mother.

Losing 2 children within 3 years proved to be just too much to bear.

Another casualty of my sister’s cancer? Maybe.

10 years ago, my mother was saved by a clinical trial.

The glass-half-empty person could say she was spared only to bury her children. In what universe does that even make sense? I know for a fact that my mother struggled with that version of reality. As heartbreaking as it gets, my mother once confided that she felt responsible for her children dying, that in some perverse universe, unbeknownst to her, she had committed some colossal sin for which her children were paying.

That’s what she carried. Every. Single. Day.

The glass half full perspective? Her work was done. It was her turn to go home. To finally rest.

As I struggle to breathe, I stare in blinking horror into the dark abyss that was once my life.

I don’t want to ride my bike. I don’t want to celebrate cures. I don’t want to raise money to save other people's loved ones. But my mother didn’t raise a quitter- so maybe one last ride…. To say thank you for the last 10 years with my beautiful, strong, determined and loving mother. I will miss you all- Mom, Pop, Tommy, Sissy- forever.

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If dying was a miracle, my sister was a Saint.

I’ve started this letter so many times. Truth be told- it’s just too soon, too raw, too sad, too angry, and too dark.

I know this much is true. The world has lost its brightest light.

My sister’s stage 4 journey was short and tortured. And still, she shined.

Through failed radiation and failed chemotherapy, she shined.

Through her struggles with immobility and pain with every single step, she shined.

When I shaved her head for the first AND second time- she shined.

Through organ failure, surgeries, ambulance rides, days in noisy, cold, chaotic emergency rooms, ICU and hospital rooms- she shined.

But there was also JOY-

Stuck in traffic, with the radio turned up to 11- singing together to her favorite 80’s tunes (Me, way off key, MK- perfect!)- she shined.

Her last birthday- 58, too weak to leave home, with all her cousins surrounding her, bringing gifts of sequins and bling, Duncan Hines red velvet cupcakes- she shined

The Cyndi Lauper concert she told her oncology team all about – in a bright orange wig because purple was sold out - she shined.

In her favorite head-to-toe sequin gown- the one she wore proudly to my niece's wedding and the very same gown we sent her home in- she shined, she sparkled, she was radiant!

The world has lost its brightest light.

As hard as it is to push forward with hope, her candle still burns.

We can do better- we must do better.

We must save other sisters, mothers, daughters, friends.

We must discover better treatments.

We need to offer more comfort, more dignity, more mercy.

A better hospice experience. For the Love of God, a better hospice experience.

I know dying is a miracle and I know my sister was a saint.

The grace of my heart. The grace of my life.

This ride’s for you Sissy- It was always for you.