Sixty Candles

Dear Mom,

Your birthday is coming to an end, but I figure I still have time to get your annual birthday letter on paper before it’s officially over. Happy 60^th! I just turned on our favorite episode of Gilmore Girls, so we can celebrate like old times.

I can’t believe this marks the third May 2 we’ll cross off the calendar without you here to make your own cake. I always get anxious as May approaches—your birthday, and the multitude of persistent retailers e-mailing me with reminders that Mother’s Day is coming up. I so wish I could respond to each of them, “Trust me. I know.”

I would say I miss you more this time of year, but that’s not the case. I think it’s just a little more acceptable for me to talk about how much I miss you. Nearly three years later, I still miss you every day. I have wanted to call you, or turn and see you standing behind me, in every moment of happiness and in every moment of disappointment these last three years have shelled out. But I miss you most in the minutes each day I spend in the car and in the minutes walking between meetings – those minutes I once filled talking to you. I miss you in every insignificant moment only a mom would think significant. I miss your advice. I miss your opinion. I miss your laugh.

In the midst of the missing though, I see you everywhere.

Last weekend, I was driving to Notre Dame, and Dad – right on cue and in true you fashion – called the second I pulled onto campus. I laughed when I answered the phone then, just like I used to laugh when you did the same thing. You don’t have to worry anymore, he’s taken over that responsibility. Whether your kids are small or grown, I can’t imagine how stressful it must be to be their only parent, the only person who can love your kids and care about them and worry about them the way a parent would. I’d tell you he’s an amazing dad, but you already know. And you would be proud.

And did you see? Luke cut his hair! He looks like your son again (not a WWF wrestler)! And that mane went right into an envelope addressed to Locks of Love—a move you no doubt inspired. He has an unbelievably big heart. You would be proud.

I see you every time Mark even talks about his kids (don’t worry – I’ll get to them in a minute). I would love to see you experience him as a dad. It has amazed us all. And Maggie is such an incredible mom. The love and patience they demonstrate and the joy they so obviously experience in parenting – you would be so proud.

And Adam, with his endless enthusiasm and energy, he’s a constant reminder of you. You would envy the life he and Carrie are living. They travel like you, albeit to even more exotic locales. They’ve been married two-and-a-half years now. You were right. He, like Mark, found a good one. I think you would have enjoyed having three daughters. Oh – and Adam’s also taken over the job of Chief Information Officer (head gossip) for the family – you would definitely be proud.

I’m guessing by now you would appreciate it if I got around to your grandkids. Oh, Mom. They’re beautiful. They’re smart and they’re funny and they’ve injected more life and more joy into this family than I could have ever imagined. David just learned to clap, and Millie is a riot. She loves to sing “Happy Birthday.”  Tonight, she sang “Happy Birthday to Grandma and Millie" (I think she adds herself every time). I will never forget the way you reacted when you found out you would be a grandma. I think of how you would look at the two of them now, and I smile every time. You would have been such a good grandma. Don’t worry. They know who you are. And you would be so proud.

I made a trip to the Grotto Sunday night to light a candle for you. But then, I just kept lighting more – 61 in all – one for each year that has passed since you were born, and one for the year ahead. With each one, I made the same wish. My birthday wish for you is that wherever you are, you see this – you see everything you did on this earth, every life you made possible, every life you made better, and every life you still influence today – and I really, really hope you’re proud.

We are celebrating your birthday this weekend in a way you would have loved, along with your grandson’s first birthday. He’ll blow out one candle tomorrow. And while I would promise to tell you all about it, I know I won’t have to.

I’ll see you there.

Happy 60^th birthday, Mom.

Love,
Ab

From Saturday

Several people have requested copies of the the remarks Dad and I gave at Mom's funeral mass. Dad says his words were "written in his head." My mind is far less reliable, so the following is what I had in front of me. I post with one disclaimer: this is not written like anything I would submit to an English teacher. I wrote it Thursday night, printed it, didn't look at it again until Saturday morning, and haven't looked at it since. (Yes, I am effectively washing my hands of all grammatical errors, misspelled words and misused punctuation marks...)

I’m not sure if many people know this, but after Mom was diagnosed in December, she suffered a complication. The day after Christmas, she was admitted to the hospital in St. Louis, and was very limited in what she could communicate for several days. Sometime early in that stage, I was sitting with her in her room in the ICU, my back to the television, and with her eyes barely open she said something I couldn’t understand. Asked her to repeat it, and I made out the words “porch light.” So I said, don’t worry, the porch light is off … she raised her right hand just barely in what appeared to be a gesture toward the door, said again, “porch light.” I turned around, just as Pat and Vanna started clapping – Mom had solved the puzzle.

Most of the month of December exists only as a blur in my mind, but I will never forget that moment … because in that moment, I knew she was going to come back. And I had infinite hope in that moment that we would get our miracle. I remember very clearly -- that was the first night in two weeks I went to sleep without one tear.

That hope did not disappoint. The weeks that followed, she continued to improve. She was able to walk more steps, talk on the phone – even cook a meatloaf and some toffee. But every morning, we would wheel over to her radiation appointments, and every morning, we would see people struggling, hear people talking about the cures for which they were hoping. And a growing unease began to settle inside me – how many prayers were going up for how many people, drowning out and encroaching on our miracle?

So I started to do the math that I’m sure anyone who has been through this kind of experience starts to do – adding up the many reasons why she deserved that miracle more.

I think many of my teachers in high school thought I was terribly unhealthy in grades 9-12. I missed a number of days of school… perhaps exactly 10 each semester … because that’s how many sick days we were allowed, and mom looked at sick days like vacation days – she’d wake me up some random morning and ask how many I had left … provided the answer was at least one, she’d say “good – we’re going shopping.”

A well-worn path developed between our house and the Plaza – the mileage we racked up only outdone by the triptic from here to St. Louis, a drive she’d make to and from, twice a week for eight years solid. She’d hit the road to collect Luke, Mark and Adam from Chaminade every Friday and return them every Sunday… hours in the car she guarded like a bear, and on which she would rarely allow anyone to infringe. Because in the car, she said, she would get her best information. She’d start driving, they’d start talking – so while they were three hours away at school, Mom was still able to guarantee that she was as up on her kids as any other mother.

After she got sick, her taste in food changed enormously. This woman who prided herself on preparing exceptional meals turned to a diet dominated by twizzlers and frosted mini wheats --the snacks she packed on those road trips every week to St. Louis.

More often than not, parents talk about the teenage years in terms of survival, but I seem to remember our parents actually enjoying them … for the most part. I asked Mom about that just a couple of weeks ago, and her response, “I loved it when you were teenagers. Treat your kids the way you expect them to behave, and you’ll be fine.” I resisted the urge to ask if that means they treated Mark like a felon.

In all honesty, I would say our parents treated us like gold, but that’s not even an adequate comparison. If we really do judge ourselves by how our parents react when we walk into the room, then you should be looking at the four most arrogant human beings on the planet.

After Mom got sick, and Adam started the blog, we tried to tell Dad how to login, and he told us he was living it, he didn’t need to read about it. Well, Dad, you’re stuck, and you don’t have to read anything … I’ll read it to you.

From December 28:
When we were sitting with Mom in her room in the Neuro ICU at Barnes today, I looked at Dad and I wondered if he thinks back to meeting her in a St. Louis hospital all those years ago. Could they have ever even considered that they’d be back in this capacity? I don’t think anyone ever does. They’re adjusting. We’re all adjusting. But they have an added responsibility as parents – one from which they’ve never shied. They continue to teach by example. Ask any one of us. We understand vows now. Over the last two weeks our parents have truly taught us what marriage means.

At some point over the last seven months, Dad has told each of us how much he has appreciated the “sacrifices” we have made through this. When I saw you take Mom’s wedding rings off her hand the other day, all I could think is how lucky we were. I can’t figure out what sacrifice any one of us has made. Rather, we were handed a unique opportunity to give you even just a glimpse into the gratitude each of us feels for having been raised your children. You have set a standard toward which we will each strive … one against which we will judge ourselves in our work, in our homes, and especially with our own children.

I wish with everything in me that Mom were here and healthy today. But the fact that she isn’t doesn’t mean our prayers weren’t answered. We got our miracle – we just lived within it for the last three decades. In counting up the reasons why Mom deserved a cure, I realized just days before she died that I was counting up individual miracles … When a good friend was dying of cancer a couple of years ago, she said to me, you have to remember, everyone here is losing one person – the person dying is losing everyone. She was right about pretty much everything … she’d be the first to tell you… but I really think she was wrong on that count. Because when I think of her now, I see her in a place where the Cardinals and Notre Dame football are enjoying perpetual winning seasons, she’s snagging bread out of the oven and getting toffee off the stove while planning her next trip– and where she’s managed to solve the one puzzle she was never quite able to figure out here on Earth … the ultimate multi-tasker has found a way to be five places at once … and still light up every corner of Heaven with a dazzling smile.

Rochelle (Shelley) Reuter Wuellner, 57, died Wednesday, July 6.

She was born to the late Philip and Roberta (Buffy) Reuter on May 2, 1954, in Williston, North Dakota. She graduated from Medicine Lake High School in 1972, and received her Bachelor of Science degree in Nursing in 1976 from the College of St. Catherine in Minneapolis, Minnesota. She married David Wuellner on July 2, 1977, in Medicine Lake, Montana, and they lived in St. Louis and Nashville before making Sedalia home in 1983.

Shelley worked as a registered nurse and as a part-time nursing instructor at State Fair Community College before becoming a full-time homemaker, a role she approached with unmatched joy, energy and dedication.

She was an active member of Sacred Heart Church and accepted leadership roles with Sacred Heart School Foundation, Sacred Heart Parish Council, P.E.O., Pettis County Health Center Board, Bothwell Regional Health Center Foundation Board, and Sorosis.

She is survived by her husband, Dr. David Wuellner, Sedalia, and four children: Luke Wuellner, San Diego; Mark (Maggie) Wuellner, Cincinnati; Abigail Wuellner, St. Louis; and Adam Wuellner, Chicago. She is preceded in death by her parents and one brother.

Mass of Christian Burial will be 10 a.m. Saturday, July 9, 2011 at Sacred Heart Catholic Church, with the Rev. Father Mike Volkmer officiating.

In lieu of flowers, the family suggests donations to Sacred Heart School Foundation.

View Mom's obituary in the Sedalia Democrat. We also submitted a copy to the Plentywood Herald.

Wednesday Morning

I post the following with a combined sense of sadness and relief.

Mom slipped into a coma over the weekend, and died peacefully at 2:05 this morning. We have all been home since late last week, and at least one of us has been with her around the clock. Luke and Mark were by her side when she passed.

Her funeral mass will take place at Sacred Heart Church in Sedalia on Saturday, July 9 at 10:00 a.m. Her obituary will run in tomorrow's paper, and we'll post it here, as well. In lieu of flowers, we would suggest contributions to Sacred Heart School Foundation, an organization that honors Mom's dedication to Catholic education and supports a school she loved -- the one that educated all four of her children.

Thank you all for your continued kindness, prayers, love and support. Few things I will claim to know with absolute certainty, but I know we were blessed enough to have an incredible mom whose spirit we will feel but whose physical presence we will miss every day for the rest of our lives. I also know that in the life we experience after this one -- whatever that may be -- there is no cancer. For those things, and many, many more, we are indescribably grateful.

Update

When Mom was diagnosed just over six months ago, I knew the odds that I would at some point have to write this update. Unfortunately, “at some point” has come faster than any of us thought it would.

Many of you read Adam’s last blog post describing Mom’s progress and improvement. The new treatment was effective for some time, and we’re very grateful for each quality day it gave us. However, as is the case with this type of cancer, the tumor has found a way to work around the medicine. Her condition has rapidly deteriorated over the last three weeks, and an MRI Monday morning confirmed what we had all suspected, and has forced us to recognize that treatment is no longer effective.

We have no idea what kind of time we have left. Hospice came to the house today, which helps guarantee her comfort, and allows us to stop being caregivers and just be her family.

As I mentioned, we’ve all heard a lot about odds over the last six months. I think of how rare this disease really is – I looked it up not long ago. The chance of a woman being diagnosed with a brain tumor (regardless of type) is .005%. Looking at that number, I can’t help but wonder why she had to fall into such an incredible minority?

But if we’re going to talk about odds, I have to acknowledge one that is simply unquantifiable. The odds that Luke, Mark, Adam and I would end up her children are four in … what? Those odds don’t exist. We’ve spent the last 26, 28, 30 and 32 years wandering around with winning lottery tickets in our back pockets. So please know that as horrible as this situation is, we still think of ourselves as incredibly lucky.

I write this note for a few reasons – but mostly because I know word will start to spread, and, as with her diagnosis, I want as much information to come from us as possible. At the same time, I’ve had this conversation with a few of my closest friends over the last couple of days, and I really don’t know how many times I can repeat it. I’m prepared for what’s coming, but I will never be ready.

All of that said, I still begin and end every day praying for a miracle. Whether your prayers are for that – or merely peace for her and for our family, I ask you to keep offering them up. Also, for those who will see or speak to her in the coming days, I make this request: please leave your tears at the door. I know that’s a tall order. We can’t escape the fact that this is devastatingly sad for her friends as well as for us – but she worked so hard to make our house a happy place. I feel she’s owed as many smiles as is humanly possible in the days ahead.

Moving and shaking

Quick update. So I've been out of town for work for the past two weeks - maybe I should leave more often. Upon return, Mom is better than ever, speed walking to the car today as we took a drive around town to see the damage from the tornado. (In your prayers for Mom, please join us in our prayers as well for those families in Sedalia, and especially Joplin, who were devastated by the recent tornadoes).

This past weekend, we had a full house, with Maggie, Mark, Abigail, and Dad. Good food from everyone as we all pitched in, but especially from Abigail. And sister, speaking of, is getting very excited as she hopefully gets to move into her new house in a week or so. Though we are not looking forward to the painting and heavy furniture lifting. "Mom, exactly how strong you feeling these days? Well, grab that side of the armoir then!"

Otherwise, all is well. This week is another Avastin week, and a super combo week as it also will include the once a month Temodar. But we are thankful for both as they and the countless prayers are working beautifully. Thank you all. Love you, Mom. And just because the walker is there, doesn't mean you get to grab a midnight snack without waking me first! Goodnight.

Happy Mother's Day, and other exciting news!

Happy Belated Mother’s Day and hope everyone is doing well. The last few weeks have involved a lot of travel for us. Luke flew in from San Diego. Carrie and I drove to South Bend for the Pre-Cana marriage retreat, and then immediately back down to St. Louis. And it’s probably easier to name the cities Mark hasn’t been in during the past month. On Sunday morning, we all woke up to go check out the newest addition to the Wuellner family (not the baby quite yet, long way to go until November), but rather, Abigail’s brand new house! She is very excited, and Mom has already picked out her bedroom on the first floor. Two more weeks and we can start painting and moving Abigail in. Rest of the day included a non-traditional “brunch” of Lion’s Choice roast beef sandwiches (well, non-traditional for other families, might be a new one for ours), and some R&R around the hotel for Mother’s Day. Everyone was just happy we could celebrate it together with our favorite person in the world.

Then, exponentially more exciting, Mom recently had her MRI pictures taken to track progress. We all hold our breath every time these check-ups occur, praying for the best results. Prayers were heard, and happy to report that it shrank by about ¼ inch! As the adage goes, less is more, and couldn’t truer in this regard. Really, these pictures just proved what we already knew – Mom has been getting better by the day as evidenced by her health (always smiling), appetite (Burger King is the new method of choice), and increased mobility during the past month (we don’t want her to get cocky, but she’s been known to get up and walk around via the walker, alone, with no help or person in sight – Mom, we love you and are proud of you, BUT BE CAREFUL!!!).

That’s all for now. We’re all excited for Abigail’s house, the encouraging MRI results, and even the sunlight and breaks from rain we are now seeing. Patio furniture and outdoor carpet (handpicked by Mom at a recent Lowe’s excursion) are all out on the deck – bring on summer!

We love you, Mom.