24th Birthday

My cousin Laurence would have turned 24 today, if it weren't for cancer.  That's a hard concept for me to grasp, considering he was just 15 at the time that he died. 15, but known for being a humanitarian and a philanthropist. 15, with a passion for cooking, playing guitar, and soccer. There are so many paths that Laurence could have taken.

When I was 24, I was working my first "real" full time job. I'll never forget when a friend called me, celebrating the news that I got a job, and she shrieked "You have a door for your office and EVERYTHING?". It was all so exciting. According to my Timehop, on this very day when I was 24, I was making my dad watch Stomp The Yard with me. I was back living with my parents after a year of volunteer service, it wouldn't be until 5 months later that I moved out to live with a friend in a rental house. It just seems surreal to me that Laurence could be doing those very things right now. Although let's be honest, he would probably be the CEO of a nonprofit fighting against poverty, not watching Stomp the Yard at his parents house.

I miss Laurence deeply, he and I had a special bond and it is one that has continued since he passed. But I'll be honest, I've had a hard time truly feeling him lately. I begged Laurence for a sign today, on his birthday. I wanted anything, whether it be a U2 song on the radio or seeing a Florida license plate, or maybe something spectacular in the sky. I didn't get a sign. It left me feeling a little empty and sad. I wondered if I was doing something wrong. It made me feel lonely. 

Maybe I'm just not listening. Maybe Laurence is trying to show me what I need to see, but I am so consumed with work, with the news, with Instagram, that I am not seeing the signs as I once did. 

I'm not sure if it all works that way.

But here's what I do know.

I had made a promise to myself that I would always talk about Laurence and what he did. Laurence was a brave soul, speaking up for people without a voice. I can only imagine the kind of advocacy work he would be doing if he was still here. And although I may never be as brave as that 15 year old boy with brain cancer was, I do try to carry him with me. I fight for cancer patients because I hope that I can be part of eliminating cancer, so that 15 year old boys can play soccer with their friends and create new recipes in their parents kitchen and play guitar in their basement without having to worry about getting to chemotherapy appointments or having brain surgery or signing onto hospice. His fight has powered my fuel to keep fighting to end cancer. And to make life easier for those who are battling cancer.

My signs may not be as obvious, or I may not see them as clearly as I once did with all of life's distractions, but my connection to Laurence will never lose it's spark. 

Maybe Laurence is being a little quieter right now so that I can truly grow, listen to what is inside of me and run with it. 

All of this is a great Mystery, and it's part of what makes life and death so beautiful and complicated. Aren't we so lucky to have these kinds of things to wonder about and awe over? It's incredible, how connected we all are. 

Happy 24th Birthday, Laurence. I wish you were still here on earth so that we could all be putting your campaign signs in our front yard or taste testing meals at your own restaurant or sitting in the front row at your concert. The grief of what could have been is a difficult one to handle. So we'll hold onto the beautiful impact you left while you were here. What a gift you gave us, buddy. 

Maybe you and my dad could watch Stomp The Yard tonight. And yes, Dad, I heard the thunder as I wrote that. Nice dad joke.

It's A Beautiful Day.

Note: There is no Weight Loss Wednesday this week. As most of you know I was feeling pretty frustrated at my lack of weight loss. After talking to some trainers at my gym and my friend Jeannette who has been through this herself, I have some ideas and have put them into place to see if they work and I start dropping lbs again. Fingers crossed.

When my clock turned to 3:45 today, all I could do was picture my parents and my sister sitting in the doctors office, hearing the news of my dad's test results. I put myself into prayer mode and waited for my phone.

"It's excellent news", she said.

As she began to tell me about the tumors shrinking, tears formed in my eyes. I wanted to cry, I wanted to run around and skip, I wanted to scream. I was beyond thrilled. I am relieved beyond measure. I am more grateful than I have ever been in my life.

This means its working. The medicine is working. My dad is fighting hard, and he's kicking ass!

I was shaking when I hung up. I was so excited. I also happened to be in the middle of an e-mail to my coworkers about something else. So  I quickly added a little paragraph about my dad, and immediately I got responses from people saying how happy they were to get this news. My coworkers have been extremely supportive of me throughout this entire thing, so to share my good news with them was something I wanted to do, and I was very touched to see all of their responses.

This good news is a big step for us. It is a huge weight off our shoulders. It is a hug from God. It is a blessing. It is, as my dad would say, a small miracle.

I think back now to how totally terrified we were that first day that my dad was in the hospital, and how far we have come since then. Obviously we had a right to be scared, and that fear still creeps in sometimes, but now we can celebrate and be grateful.

We have had so many people on our side. Some who we don't even know very well. It is a beautiful feeling to know you have a team of people cheering you on and praying for you. To each of you that have prayed, called, texted, e-mailed, and stopped to ask how we are doing, millions and millions of hugs going out to you. Millions.

This is not the end of the road- my dad will continue to have these test frequently. We know that, and we are ready. We can take anything on. We are #carolinstrong .

The most important lesson I have learned through my dad's diagnosis is this: hold your loved ones close. Do not ever hold back your love for them. Tell them, frequently, what they mean to you. Also, do not underestimate what your kind words can mean to someone else. So many times through this whole thing, just a simple hand squeeze, hug, or "how are you doing?" have meant the world to me. Oh, and one more thing: little, silly things that bring you down? They don't matter. Do not let them consume you.

I love you all.

PS: Yesterday in my letter to Laurence I asked him to give me some U2 songs today as a sign of comfort. He gave me three. It really was a...drum roll please...Beautiful Day.

Dear Laurence...

Dear Laurence,

Does God separate his angels into teams?

I know that's a pretty bold question to start off with tonight, but it's the first thing I thought of. Like, are there angels who watch over the poor, angels who care for the sick, angels who lead those who are lost? And do these teams have captains? I'm willing to bet that if this is the case, you are the captain of  some kind of team. Maybe other teen angels who spent their time on earth helping others. Maybe you all found each other up there in Heaven and you're working together now, trying to help the rest of us. I bet you'd be a great captain, just like you were for your soccer team.

I have a very selfish favor to ask of you, though. Can you put your angel duties aside tomorrow and focus on my dad? He will receive some news back on his tests regarding the tumor in his lung, and I am hoping and praying that it is good news. If Heaven works the way I think it does, you probably already know the results, and maybe you are working on how to be supportive of each of us tomorrow as we wait. All I need is peace and understanding. I have confidence that my dad is going to be okay, but I may need some help putting that confidence into practice tomorrow while I wait for my parents to tell me the news.

Back in September, when my dad was first diagnosed, there was a few days where I heard U2 songs everywhere I went. In the car, in stores, at the gym. etc. I am positive that was you, showing me that you were here, and that we were going to get through this. Maybe tomorrow, you can throw me a U2 song?

Sometimes I wonder what you would be like if you had never gotten sick, and if you were still here. Tragedies will happen and I'll watch the news and think "man, what would Laurence have done if he was here?". There's no doubt in my mind you'd still be changing lives and inspiring people. Because that's happening now, even though you aren't here. Every single person who hears your story is touched, and moved to action. It's incredible.

This day makes me miss you, but I know, I just know, that good things continue to happen because of your legacy. I am sad that you did not get more time, but I am overjoyed that I had the honor and privilege of having you as my little buddy, that I witnessed your story, and that I can tell that story.

I look for you a lot. Just in passing- in the smiles of others, in acts of kindness. Sometimes I feel you beside me, cheering me on when I have a new idea or a goal. But two years ago, I saw and felt you most when we were in Ft. Walton. We are headed there again in April, and I can't wait to see you there. We will be side by side, just like when we were kids.

I love you Laurence. Please look over my daddy and the rest of my family tomorrow. I miss you. See you in Florida.

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Happy Birthday, Laurence

Dear Laurence,

Happy Birthday.

I really went back and forth on whether or not to write a blog in honor of your birthday. I have done it for the last two years, and have several other blogs about you. I thought -eh- my readers know about Laurence. They know I miss him. They know how special he was.

And then I woke up.

Because your life, your mission, is always new to someone. Maybe someone will stumble on this blog and want to know more about you, so they'll ask and do some research and once again someone will be inspired by your story. Maybe it will change another life. Maybe it will motivate someone to get out and help somebody else.

Because, if a 15 year old with Stage 4 brain cancer can make a difference, anyone can.

Sometime last year, your name started to make local news headlines again. Your guitar was put on display at the UofM hospital and people were talking about you, and all the money you raised for the One Campaign. Some of my coworkers even heard about it, and we'd have lengthy discussions at lunch. Once one of them called me from her car because she heard them talking about you on NPR. That was pretty cool, you know? To have a reminder that your legacy and inspiration live on.

In some ways, I feel like I have failed you and your family, because I still haven't finished that book I started writing about you. I have a lot written, but I always get frustrated with myself, thinking it's not good enough, and then I quit. I should keep going. I don't think it will ever be too late. Even if one other person besides me reads it, it won't be too late. Right?  I should keep writing. For you. My beautiful cousin who's spirit lives on.

You know, last summer your beautiful Grandma Mary Ann gave me this picture she found:

It's so perfect, the two of us playing in the sand at Ft. Walton. We have some years in between us in age, but that didn't matter. I loved spending time with you. Even back then, you were a little ray of sunshine in my life. I probably didn't fully appreciate it then, and you probably never knew, but my moments with you were my favorites of the Florida trip. You would look at me with that adorable face and ask me a million questions. You loved to learn. And I loved to teach you. But later, when you were sick, I learned more from you than I ever would have possibly imagined. You were the greatest teacher I ever had, and I never sat in your classroom.

I spent about 15-20 minutes staring at this picture this morning. In fact, I was late to the gym because of it. But I couldn't help it. Part of me was reflecting on the memories, part of me was praying, and part of me was desperately seeking something in the picture to comfort me, to remind me that you are still here somehow.

I found it.

First of all, your hand, although I know it is holding a shovel, is positioned close to my chest- my heart. My head is down and I am kneeling. While I was staring at the picture, I couldn't help but to think- it looks like you are praying for me, or with me. You are looking at me intently. I know to others this may seem odd, and they may even roll their eyes and think "Megan. They simply captured a moment of you two building a sandcastle". But today, that's not how I see it. Today, I see it as two people praying together, you comforting me.

Do you know that I usually don't like building sandcastles/playing in the sand? I would avoid it all costs. I much preferred to be in the water. Bonny, my Godmother, used to call me "The Fish" on our family vacations because I never left the water. So the simple fact that you got me to build a sandcastle with you says a heck of a lot about your influence on me, kiddo.

Happy Birthday, Laurence. Know that you continue to live on with me in my heart. I promise to finish the book. I promise to keep building sandcastles.

Love, Megan


FOR MY READERS:

I am doing a short walk in honor of Laurence on September 21st. You can get more details here if you are interested in walking. If you want to donate in honor of him, let me know. I will send you to the right place.

If you have not read about Laurence before in my blog, and want to learn more, check out this post.

Or, do a simple Google search for "Laurence Carolin".