Reflections and Connections
There are times in every person’s life when you need to step back and reflect upon things. I think this is important because, from my perspective of life, you can’t always just go plodding forward, doing what you’ve always done. Unless of course you’re always happy and always feeling fulfilled and always feeling like you’re going in the right direction. I don’t know about you, but in my life, those positive feelings aren’t always my predominant motivating emotions.
And so, there are times I feel it’s important to reflect upon oneself.
Am I going in the right direction?
Am I doing the right things?
Am I making the right decisions, working hard enough?
Am I a good father, a good husband, a good son…? You fill in your own phrases and expectations.
There are those who would look at this process and consider those following this practice as being insecure or unsure of themselves. Yet I have seen many confident self-assured people making foolish decisions and choosing the wrong directions in their lives.
I personally see this process as an extraordinary way of trying to be more self-assured that one is on the right path, making the right choices, and heading in the right direction in their lives. Of course, one of the first challenges here is to accept the reality that we cannot always be “On the right path”. Part of this journey is finding the right path, by learning what the wrong paths are, and understanding the differences between the two and how they affect you. Another challenge is learning to know the difference between what negativity and the wrong path… and what is and overly second-guessing yourself.
For example, as I look at the direction this article is taking, I have concluded that, although this might be interesting, I believe I’m getting off topic in respect to what I originally hoped to accomplish here.
So… I digress.
Because, in this case I believe what I am trying to focus on is this:
When events in life cause you to reflect upon someone else’s life; reflecting upon someone else’s existence.
Sometimes, you can reflect upon someone else’s life in respect to the choices that they made about the directions that they took and how that affected their lives. Or, you can reflect upon things that quite possibly happened to them; things that they had no control over, and yet, profoundly affected who they are, who they were to become, and in some cases the outcome of their entire lives.
For the most part, this whole post is a reflection. It is a reflection on two families and how they each lived their lives. It’s about their lives, and the connections that were made and how those connections created other connections and eventually changed everyone’s lives.
And then, once the story is told, what can we learn; how can we grow: Reflections!
When my wife was very young, she had a very good friend named Susan. Suffice it to say for brevity in this case, they became friends at a very young age and stayed friends throughout their lives. They had the kind of friendship that transcends time and circumstance. As time went on life and responsibilities took these two girls in their separate directions, living their separate lives. Regardless, they still stayed connected and continued to be close friends.
Over time both these girls were married and from those bonds they both brought children into the world.
As for me and mine: One way or another, my wife and I brought three children into this world; Sort of. Although not all my children came to me in the same fashion, not one of them is any less my child than any of the others. As a father, and as a human being who looks at and observes people in general, I’m very proud of the three people that I call my children. I can honestly say that I believe they benefited from being our children; I can see the traits and habits that I would’ve wished them to have in their lives. I like to believe that our teaching and our guidance helped to point them in the right directions. And yet I also see the uniqueness and the passion that makes them the individuals that they are.
In Susan’s case, she brought children into the world as well, but for her, it was triplets. Although they were not identical triplets, mainly because there are two boys and one girl, they were all undeniably related. Where one was hoped for three were achieved: Daniel, Bradley, and Megan.
As I am trying to write a blog post and not a novel, we shall move ahead a few years.
As time passed, the two families grew, moved around, lived their lives and in their own individual ways were successful and happy families. I should add here for clarity and for the benefit of those who read this that know this history already, that Susan and her husband Dirk divorced a few years after their marriage for reasons that are unimportant to this narrative
Time passed and Susan’s triplets grew to be rambunctious, happy and driven teenagers with their eyes on the future and all the things that life had in store for them. Unfortunately, during their 20th year it was discovered that their mother had developed cancer. As are all lives affected by cancer, her disease was horrible but was thankfully short. The triplets spent their birthday, their 21st birthday towards the end of April in the hospital visiting their mother. On May 7 the triplets mother Susan succumbed to the cancer and passed away, ending a horrible chapter in all their lives.
Jump ahead about six years.
As is to be expected, the triplets were saddened by the loss of their mother. For various reasons their father had very little involvement in their lives at this point. It’s important to note here that this chronicle is not in any way trying to point the finger at any party as being at fault for the failure of this relationship. Suffice it to say that the three children as offspring, and the father as the only surviving parent, for many reasons just didn’t see I to I and didn’t stay connected during this time as well as one might expect.
Of the three, Megan lived a simple life going to college and being what is called a professional nanny. I don’t recall if she actually lived with a family while taking care of the family’s children. Regardless, she lived the kind of existence where her needs were meager; the income from the various families that she worked with was sufficient to meet her needs. Although I personally was not a part of her life at the time to know this, I learned later that she enjoyed what we’ll call the venue scene in Chicago where she would go out drinking casually with her friends and listening to one of the many, what I’ll call hipster bands that she enjoyed listening to. She was such a fan of these sorts of bands that from time to time, when her money allowed, she would take trips across country, usually sharing the costs by going with friends and splitting the expenses; all so they could see one of their favorite bands playing somewhere else other than Chicago.
This went on for quite some time until about five years ago she came to our home teary-eyed and self-conscious. She was complaining, in my words, that she had done the best that she could, but she was running into some financial problems and couldn’t afford her share of the expenses any longer where she was living. She asked if she could stay with us in our home, taking up a spare room upstairs. It would only be for a month, six weeks at the most until she could get back on her feet.
At that point in our lives, out of our three kids, one was married in the Army with children of his own, one was living her own life in North Carolina as a teacher, and the youngest of our three was going to college and was still living here at home. Being a family that was used to having three children in the house at one time, and, coming to terms with the fact that being “empty-nesters” was a concept that was out of the question at least for the foreseeable future, adding one more didn’t seem to be a problem. Besides: Megan was a wonderful kid, a decent person to hang around with and talk to and on the average day you very rarely ever knew she was there. The arrangement was simple: she needed a place to stay and because of my wife’s relationship with her mother, there was no question that we would give her a place to stay -no strings attached no expenses expected. From our perspective she may not have been “one of ours”, but she always felt like one. So: that’s what families do.
It was almost exactly 6 weeks later; I remember it because I remember how nervous and tense Megan seemed to be. She always had her own schedule, lived her own life, and came and went as she saw fit. It was common to go a whole day or two and never see her at all. But during this brief period things were obviously different. She wasn’t rarely going out anywhere she wasn’t really doing anything. For the most part she was just hiding in her bedroom.
My wife, being a marriage and family counselor by profession, is much more attuned to people’s emotions that I am and knew full well what the problem was. Her and Megan had a little chat, and it was soon thereafter that I learned what Megan’s problem was: She had reached that six-week point when she had said she would be going back on her own. She had said she was going to be able to move out again and was freaking out because she wasn’t financially capable of doing it yet. In fact, we would later reflect that we weren’t quite sure how long it might possibly take.
Little did we know at the time that six weeks would turn into a little over three years; three years of Megan living in our home, and sharing our lives, and in many wonderful ways becoming more and more a part of the family.
As a father I can honestly say in fairness that legally, I am the father of three children; two girls and a boy. However, as time has gone on the number of people that I actually considered to be my children, is a number quite a bit larger than three. Whether it be the children of friends that needed some place to stay, or friends of our daughters that just enjoyed being here and continued coming back, the number of children I had and still have today is quite a large number I am proud to say. Megan very quickly became what I lovingly call as a father, one of my girls.
Now I admit here that I’m jumping around a little bit at this point of the story. I admit that the actual timeline gets a little jumbled in my mind. Suffice it to say that, for the intent of this story, everything that follows happened over a one and a half to two-year period; the last one and a half to two years, in about this way:
My oldest daughter, while living in North Carolina, developed a relationship with a gentleman that I later learned was a wonderful man. As mothers and daughters tend to talk about certain things more than daughters and fathers do, I soon learned through the happily married couple’s grapevine that I should be expecting a call from a certain gentleman in North Carolina soon to ask me a very specific question.
Now as a loving and protective father and admittedly an obnoxious smartass, I relished this opportunity to make sure that this gentleman was as uncomfortable as possible when he called to ask me the obvious question that he was going to ask me. I considered it my right -no my responsibility as a father- to make sure he knew exactly where he stood with my little girl.
I was sitting in my car one day after a doctor’s appointment. I’d taken five minutes just to relax for a bit and gather my thoughts after my appointment before I continued about my day. My cell phone rang and there in the readout was a North Carolina number from the gentleman that I knew was dating my daughter. I can remember thinking to myself:
So… it begins!
I answered the phone and we began a very short and casual conversation.
“How are you doing” he would say.
“I’m fine, how are you” I answered.
Back-and-forth this went for a little while until finally it got quiet and then I heard him say at the other end:
“Well, there is a reason why I called you today.”
He very calmly and very firmly said to me:
“I would very much like the honor of having your permission to marry your daughter…
All those years of preparing. Years of prepping to present myself as the fatherly overlord of my daughter’s honor melted away in a heartbeat. I was instantly defeated, and more appropriately won over by the honesty and the sincerity and the respect that this man showed me with that one sentence. As I am almost now in writing this, I was then in hearing it almost in tears I was so moved.
My: Wrath of Father speech, was soon turned into something along the lines that…
“It would be my honor to have you as a part of our family and to entrust my daughter with you.”
Time passed and plans were made and soon the nuptials were due to begin. It was to be a small affair that Would Take place in North Carolina where they lived. Practically the entire family from the Chicago area was either driving or flying to North Carolina to take part, including Megan my now all but legally adopted daughter.
It was the day we were getting ready to leave. Megan pulled my wife aside and told her something that she was concerned about. She said that she had, what I’ll call, a bit of a stomachache and an aching in her lower abdomen that kind of felt like she was constipated, or she had eaten some didn’t agree with her. She had noticed that she was feeling kind of bloated and uncomfortable. She had talked to her doctor and made an appointment to get it looked at and to figure out what was going on. She was understandably a little nervous because all of this was going down right before the wedding and she didn’t want to ruin the event with the trivialities of her not feeling well.
Regardless, she felt good enough to go and was insistent that we proceed. We, on the other hand, we fine with it as long as this was a priority when she returned.
My oldest daughter’s wedding was a smashing success. As far as I could tell it was everything she had hoped it would be; a wonderful wedding to the perfect guy. Megan had a good time, but we could tell that she wasn’t quite feeling up to snuff. We stayed for basically an extended weekend to see the wedding through and spend some time visiting. My wife and I had to get back to our jobs, so we headed home leaving Megan to watch the newlywed’s dogs and take care of things while my daughter and her new husband were on their honeymoon. This had been pre-arranged long in advance: another reason why Megan wanted to make sure she went and did her part.
It’s so easy at this stage of the story to indulge in a considerable portion of some: “could’ve, should’ve, would’ve” talk.
If she had only seen the doctor sooner!
If she hadn’t stayed longer!
When I picked her up from the airport it took everything she had just to get into the car she was so uncomfortable. We ended up leaving the seat all the way back just to make herself comfortable. Instead of going home I called my wife and I took her straight to the emergency room. She eventually ended up in a hospital in Chicago under the care of a capable staff of oncologists, surgeons and doctors who perform the necessary surgery to remove the tumors, about 2 ½ feet or her intestine, and as a result saved her life. The surgery removed all the larger tumors, though there were many smaller spots throughout the cavity where they had been working.
The only saving thoughts I had at this point were, that everyone involved did the best they could do under the circumstances. We had to know and believe that in the 2 ½ weeks it took her to get back home to see a doctor, and to receive surgery, her condition did not go from manageable to unmanageable in that short a time. This was something that had been developing for quite some time.
She was diagnosed with stage IV appendix cancer.
At that stage in the process the prognosis was good. A little chemotherapy, the proper medication and she could expect to live up to five more years. After all, this type of cancer is notoriously slow; it tends to spread a lot slower than most other cancers. Although this all sounded promising, it was nowhere near the life expectancy of someone that was only 31 at the time. However, it was the one positive spin we had in an otherwise shitty situation.
Nevertheless, she was given a fighting chance. After all, positive attitude is a key element in a situation like this.
And so, it began.
It was obvious based upon her condition that she would not be able to work and would very soon be unable to support herself again. As she had already spent three years living with us it was the most logical choice to invite her back in and to do what we could help her through this difficult stage in her life.
She was sad.
She was afraid.
And, as most people dealing with any kind of cancer involving chemotherapy and all the other medications that were designed to heal you, she was miserable and uncomfortable. However, she fought hard; she worked hard to keep her attitude up. She was seeing a counselor, working with the cancer support centers, and was involved in group sessions with other cancer patients to lend support for what she was going through. I think one of the hardest parts for her when she was in these group sessions was to realize that of all the people there, she was the youngest. Not to suggest that there aren’t other young people with cancer, just that there weren’t any that she was associated with.
After the initial standard treatments were finished her cancer was rechecked and it was found to be slowed but still growing. The initial group of doctors said that there wasn’t much else they could do to improve the situation. They recommended that there may be a trial available that would be appropriate for her situation -if one was available. Fortunately, one was available, and she began the process of prepping for this trial to see if that would make any difference.
Finally, in the end, after a year of struggling and fighting and striving to have a positive attitude, Megan Kusak passed on May 7, 2019. She passed on the exact same day that her mother died of cancer just 11 years earlier.
As an average everyday human being, with even the slightest amount of compassion and care for other people, I would grieve the loss of this person. I would be frustrated and annoyed by the fact that such a young soul should have to suffer so much and die so young. This is the least of what should be expected from anybody.
Although I don’t consider myself above average, I am a part of a unique group. If done right, this group tends to care just a little bit more than other men that aren’t a part of this group. This group tends to go the distance, and if they have any heart at all, go a little bit further. Yes it’s true that some people are in this group by accident, but those of us that are in it on purpose, by choice, have gone into this with our eyes wide open, attempting to be prepared for and capable of dealing with just about anything that might come our way as a result of this choice.
For you see I am in a group that is commonly called… fathers.
Although in most cases we don’t carry the same status as that other group called moms, those of us who really give a damn try to make sure that we walk in step and at a very close second.
Individually, these two groups are a formidable force. As a team however, we are unstoppable.
The next obvious comment is: fatherhood is all fine and good, but this poor child wasn’t even one of your own.
The only answer I have that makes any sense to me is simple. When you’re a father “Daddy’s Heart” doesn’t know the difference if they are of an age where they could be one of yours; even if they are of an age where they remind you of when yours were younger.
It’s been difficult this last year, but especially difficult over the last couple of months. It goes without saying that the whole process from diagnosis to end was a challenge; but as the time passed and the situation worsened, the challenges on all fronts became more difficult.
Please don’t confuse my last comments as an effort to seek sympathy for what I had to go through. On the contrary I know without a doubt that what I had to go through as an observer was nothing at all compared to what she had to go through. It goes without saying that cancer, as well as any difficult disease, is a challenge to both the one suffering, and those who suffer alongside that person. And when the disease all too often reaches its unfortunate conclusion, it is then when the victim of the disease ceases their suffering, and the survivors are left behind to carry on. We must suffer in silence, mourning the loss of the one we loved -and still love- and try to carry on.
I read an article a while back about a woman who wrote the obituary for her brother. As the article read “Woman’s obituary for her bad ass cowboy brother goes viral”. In all fairness to the family in question I will omit the names from my article as by this point in time I’m sure that they would like to put this whole matter behind them. However, I can say that the obituary was written with love and a bit of sarcasm and opportunistic derision for an ornery cowboy that just happened to be her brother.
Although the entire article and the quoted obituary was all magnificent, the one part that stuck out the most for me is the only part that I will quote here; I believe it’s a true statement and it applies to Megan as well.
“Megan led a good life and had a peaceful death – but the transition was a bitch. And for the record, she did not lose her battle with cancer. When she died, the cancer died, so technically it was a tie!”
Obviously, I change the name and turned he into her.
As a 59-year-old man that calls himself a father, and proudly acknowledges that “his girls” includes many more than just the two daughters that I was blessed with, I can say with a lump in my throat that no father should ever live long enough to see someone that is either his child or someone that he considers his child pass on before him.
Unfortunately however, in this adventure we call life, there is only one guaranteed course of action:
We are born…
We live – hopefully a long and fulfilling life…
And then we die.
Regardless of what you hope for or what you would wish to happen, this is pretty much what will happen. As much as I dread the thought of growing older and someday passing on, having a 32-year-old die before me is hard to swallow. This is especially true when the person in question was such a loving, kindhearted, caring and giving individual.
Regardless of her age, Megan very easily would be considered an innocent in respect to her outlook on life and her stand in respect to how she lived her life. Whereas most of us at many ages can say that we have lived a full life and tried many a wild and crazy thing – some of them none too healthy and none too smart – Megan, in my opinion, pretty much followed the straight and narrow. Not that she was a religious person per se, but that she lived a clean life and for the most part made good choices. Sure, she liked to drink the odd craft beer from time to time, and she tended to listen to music that from my perspective didn’t sound like music at all. On the other hand, she tended to make obscenely healthy choices. She preferred organic food, and even consider herself a vegan. As a result, unless she was confronted by an obscenely delectable cheeseburger, she ate nothing but healthy food in good quantities.
She didn’t drink too much, she didn’t smoke at all – in fact she had never smoked a cigarette, or a joint, or anything in her life. But in the end, cancer got her anyway.
So, after having Megan in my home for more than five years, and having her in my life on and off for most of her life, I can say without doubt that there will be an empty space in my heart and in my home now that she’s gone.
I watched a young lady who never really considered herself particularly strong willed or physically strong, fight the toughest fight I have ever seen a person fight. In the beginning she needed emergency surgery to remove a bundle of over aggressive tumors, and needed her intestines basically rebuilt in order to function properly and was diagnosed at that point with stage IV cancer. And yet despite this, she lived on for another year and for the most part kept a good attitude and a stiff upper lip despite the challenges that she faced.
Throughout her life, and especially during her struggles with cancer, she was a very private person. One could almost say that she was shy, and in many ways from my perspective seemed to have a low opinion of herself. As she began her struggle with cancer, this need for privacy, this tendency to turn into herself only increased. Towards the end when we finally talked her into contacting her friends and letting them know what she was going through, the hospital agreed to allow them – whoever was interested – to come and visit her in the hospital. During that time when her friends came and went the limits of two people per room were greatly stretched -and yet no one complained.
As a man who only heard from her perspective what her social life was like, I was overwhelmed by the line of people that came and went to see her before her time was through. Yes, like Megan, they were an odd bunch no doubt. But each of them had a heart as big as Texas, and willingness to do whatever it took to bring a smile to her face and to let her know that she was and always would be loved.
Before her situation got too terribly bad, she sat with my wife and worked out what is called the five wishes. One of those wishes was -in my words, and simply put- she didn’t want anyone to grieve for her. Rather, she wanted a celebration of life. This celebration of life was to take place in this specific bar that her and her friends liked to frequent in Wrigleyville Chicago called The GMAN. It was to include a few very specific brands of whiskey, lots of chocolate, and lots of the music that her and her friends loved so much.
Although my wife and I love chocolate, we’re not whiskey drinkers per se, and although I don’t find her music offensive, it’s not something that I would tend to listen to on purpose. Needless to say, when my wife and her wrote out this part of her five wishes, my wife and I were a little dumbstruck in respect to what it all meant. Nevertheless, when her wonderful friends heard her explanation of this event from those of us who helped her write it, they perked right up, got big smiles on their faces and said very simply:
“we know exactly what she means and where she wants it to take place. We’ll handle everything.”
The party took place on a Saturday afternoon between 1 and 4 PM. Turned out to be a nice little bar on the north side of the city with two main rooms and a bar in each. By the time we got set up a little bit before 1 o’clock the crowd was a little sparse as it was still early. Yet by 2 o’clock the room that we had been assigned was packed with drinking and chocolate eating people, happy laughing people, and teary-eyed sad people. By 3 o’clock the crowd had overflowed to where we pretty much had taken over the whole place.
There were a lot of people there that I had never seen before and will probably never ever see again. But we were drawn together by one common thing: a shy, introverted little girl that touched all our hearts and brought us all together to remember her in this special occasion. We were even told by a couple of her friends that a couple of the bands that she followed have sponsored and organized two Memorial concerts in her honor.
By the time the party was over I for one was exhausted. We all went home, had some dinner and got some sleep. By Sunday night some of our guests had cleared out and were heading in other directions only leaving me and my wife and my two daughters who had flown in for the occasion; they had to fly out first thing in the morning to head back home.
I’ve said it before but I don’t mind saying it again; combining my daughter’s flying home, and Megan going home, by the time I polish up this article in preparation for publishing on Monday night I can honestly say that the house is painfully quiet. I’ve always enjoyed my privacy from time to time; at the end of a long day I sometimes enjoy a little time to myself. But on this night, the silence is deafening, and the emptiness and sense of loss touches my soul.
Although my house is a little quieter, it is a silence that brings nothing but pain.
Yes, it has been sad to lose Megan. But it is almost equally as tragic to look back and realize that, in truth she never really knew how loved she was, and how many people cared.
Sometimes we never know just how much we have touched other people’s lives until it’s too late.
Although I am grateful that your suffering has come to an end, the world is darker and lonelier now that you’re gone.
Thank you for allowing me to be a part of your life.
To those of us who are left behind:
We will grieve, but we will carry on; because if we love life… then there’s really nothing else we can do.
And if we learned nothing else from Megan’s experience, we should remember that we need to live each day as if it’s our last. Not in a ridiculous I can do any stupid thing I want sort of way, but in a beautiful and glorious way that embraces life, and love, and joy, and every unrealized possibility knowing that anything is possible. Remember that there may not be a tomorrow so live your life today and every day like there is no tomorrow.
Addendum:
As usual with an article like this one, it has taken me a bit longer than the following Monday to finish. To be quite frank, editing and reviewing the last few paged were just a little more painful than I was prepared to deal with.
Since the party of that weekend, about a month and half has passed.
Sometimes patients, and self-confidence to finish what you started when you’re ready, is the best approach.
As time has passed and I have had time to reflect I realize, as I tried to note above, that life goes on. Each of us are on a wheel that goes around but once and then our turn is done; at least as far as we know. This tragedy and loss, combined with other events in my life has pointed me in the direction to help me realize that my life is pretty amazing. It has help me to realize that I have made some wonderful connections with some wonderful people that have, and will, continue to affect my life for years to come even after their influence is gone. For when real love is involved, the influence of that love carries on beyond the life expectancy of the person giving it.
About a week ago, my wife was in class at the University coming to the conclusion of the evenings teaching. She noticed that one of the students was hanging around, obviously waiting for everyone else to leave. My wife has always been very intuitive; very capable of reading emotions and body language and so forth, so she knew that something was up and this individual was just a little nervous. Once everyone had left this student stepped forward with a nervous look on her face and began to speak:
“I have something that I need to tell you.” She began.
“I don’t want you to think that I’m weird or strange or anything, but you see, I’m a bit of an empath. I’m also a Medium outside of my studies and my efforts to become a counselor. That’s what I do when I’m not doing this.”
Now it needs to be said at this point that my wife is a very outspoken and blunt individual. She doesn’t have any problem saying anything, and she very rarely has any problem hearing anything. If this were not so it would be very difficult to do what she does for a living. In addition, my wife has this same ability herself, this ability to sense one’s emotions. It’s something that she’s always been able to do. It was interesting therefore that, although she wasn’t sure yet where this conversation was going, what had been said so far was neither a surprise nor shocking in any way.
“This is been bugging me for over two weeks.” She said.
“I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to come and talk to you, but I was afraid that you would think I was silly and weird and maybe even kick me out of the program.”
My wife worked at reassuring her that it was fine and to just come out with it.
She proceeded to tell my wife that she was getting a message from someone that needed to tell her something. She knew what my wife had been going through with Megan. There were times when Megan’s needs kept her from class and so she had told class what was going on and why she had to miss sometimes.
She then proceeded to describe the impressions that she got from this person with the message
“Did Megan have a breathing tube?” She asked.
“No.” Was my wife’s response.
She then proceeded to describe two or three additional impressions that she got from this, being shall we say, that was trying to communicate with her.
She very quickly became very frustrated. She was confused as to why this message had come across to her so strongly and so passionately and yet there seem to be no connection with Megan.
That’s when the light went off in my wife’s brain and she realized who she was talking about.
“Wait a minute.” My wife said. “This isn’t Megan that’s speaking to you, this is her mother, Susan.”
At that moment the student looked at her with excited eyes somehow realizing that this was the truth.
The message that she had was straight and to the point. She just wanted to tell Kimanne “thank you” for being there for Megan. Thank you for keeping your promise and taking such good care of her.
She wanted to say that she had been able to look down and see how things were going. From where she was she had a good perspective on things and knew that Megan was in good hands. She wanted Kimanne to know that her and Megan are happy and in nirvana.
Connections.
For some people this last little bit is probably kind of hard to hear. It’s probably equally as difficult to believe. To me and mine however, it’s perfectly plausible, perfectly sensible, and in many ways very reassuring.
I believe from this experience, and for many others that love truly does transcend time. That when true love is present, even death cannot stand in the way of the connections that we have made. I also believe most assuredly because of this experience, that we do not completely understand what happens after this life except that I know in some way we do carry on, and that love endures.
