I Should Also Tell You...

Two Thousand Sixty-Seven

On Tuesday, last week, I took Ezra for a check-up at a new pediatrician. 

"Okay, family history," the doctor said cheerfully, turning to her computer. "Heart attacks, strokes, diabetes, cancer? Are all the grandparents still living?"

"My dad," I said. "Is not. He died yesterday."

"I'm so sorry," she said.

"It's okay," I said.


On Wednesday, last week, I took a train back up to Pennsylvania. 

As I rose to get off, my bag knocked over my seatmate's coffee cup.

"Oh!" she gasped.

"Oh shit!" I muttered. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," she said.


A very nice man asked me if I needed help with my suitcase as we boarded the elevator out on the track. I told him no thanks, my toddler weighed more than this, and HE didn't come with wheels and a handle, so I was good. He laughed.

Then he sighed. "And NOW I have to go to work."

And now I have to go help plan a funeral, I thought, but did not say.

Instead, I smiled. "That sucks. I'm so sorry."


A couple hours later I was ordering a cake. The baker asked if I wanted anything written on it, or a specific decoration or theme.

"It's...for a funeral," I stammered. "So...probably just plain. Right?"

He nodded. "Simple and elegant. I'm so sorry."


People kept stopping by my mom's house to visit -- some of them out of the blue, having come across his obituary in the paper that morning, despite not having any contact with my parents for years and years. I found some of them nice, some of them insufferable, but almost all of them exhausting. I sat on the couch and nodded nicely as they retold their own decade-old stories about loved ones who died, who died after an illness, or suddenly, or at the hospital or at home or in hospice. My favorite was the one who was convinced her dead mother and grandmother were communicating with her via an off-season-blooming of her Christmas cactus. 

I was tired and cranky and terribly sick with a cold and trying to hide the alarming number of false-labor contractions I'd been getting since my arrival from my already stressed-out-enough mom. I'd lost two pounds since my last OB visit and couldn't seem to eat anything without experiencing stomach pains afterwards, so I was generally quarantined to the couch, unable to do much without immediately regretting it. 

So I wasn't in the mood for small talk with strangers, especially small talk about strangers dying, which I couldn't even believe was actually possible, but there it was. Thanks for sharing? I'm sorry I don't remember that time you babysat me when I was five? I'm sorry for your loss? I'm sorry but it's our turn now, so shut up? 


My mom kept asking me to pull up my blog on my phone, so she could see the comment count climb. 1,832. 1,910. 2,014. Two thousand and sixty seven in all. We read every single one. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry

I told her there were hundreds more on Facebook, Twitter and email, too.

"It's so wonderful," she marveled. "What do you even say to them?

"I don't know," I said. 


The funeral was on Friday. He was buried with military honors for serving at Fort Knox as a sergeant during the Korean war. It was cold and raining and had even snowed for awhile. "April Fools!" barked the TV weathermen that morning. I wore a dark purple dress, a black puffy maternity parka and cream-colored rubber wellies. My sister and I sat on either side of my mom, who sobbed and sobbed, while my other siblings spread out around us, our faces all frozen in tense, non-crying states, our eyes all communicating the singular thought of OH MY GOD THIS SUCKS.

I stared at the casket and felt dull and numb. And cold. So very, very cold. I decided I just wanted to get through the day without anyone touching me. Or rubbing my belly. Oh, hell, that. And that I would ask my mother-in-law for some pantyhose before we went to the reception.


"I want to be cremated," I told Jason back in the car.

"Really?" he asked.

"Yes. Then go on a really nice trip and dump me there, and like, be done with it."

Jason adjusted his grip on the wheel and looked pained. "I don't know."

"Okay, well, how about if I go first, you do whatever makes you feel better? If having a grave to visit helps, do that. Otherwise..." I waved my hand dismissively out the window.

"I really hate this GPS," he said, poking his finger at the map, which informed us we were on private roads with no data. 


The reception was lovely. Family friends hosted it at their sprawling old farmhouse, and there was a train table upstairs for the boys to play with and a piano downstairs for them to bang on. And then there was the cake. The simple, elegant cake with plain white icing and no writing.

After each and every bite, Ezra scrunched up his fists and his face and yelled "YUMMMMMEEEEEE." And he greeted everyone he met with hugs and kisses. Noah was shyer, but was on his most perfect behavior, except when he told Ezra there was a bear in the basement and accidentally made him cry. I hadn't seen them since Tuesday, and I couldn't get enough of them. 

All the televisions in the house were tuned to the Phillies' season opener. Ezra wore a little red Phillies t-shirt I'd bought at Old Navy ages before. The Phils came from behind to win in the ninth inning, and everybody cheered. My dad's home (and eventually, hospice) nurse was there, and his general physician and his entire office staff came, after seeing their last patient for the day. 

"I so sorry," people said to me, over and over. But then they also told me how beautiful my children were, and how funny, and how wonderful I looked, and how exciting a new baby would be, and how they promised to help cheer up my mom the next week, and the week after that, once I went home and was grounded from travel. 

"Thank you, " I learned to say, simply, finally. And I meant it. I mean it. Thank you



^What Roberta (2nd comment) said. I'm here to share it.

They say, Many hands make light work. But the burden that just got dumped on you is like gravity itself just re-centered. Each commenter can cry her eyes out, and take that bit into herself, but we can still see the load you're carrying, sun sized next to our speck. It's good to know that even if your load didn't lighten, maybe your shoulders straightened a little.

I think it's time to repost here something I said to Tanis two years ago today; something that's good for you to remember while you grit your teeth at the ineffective annoying ones who are trying to help:

All celebrities, major or minor, from movie stars to pastors to bloggers to political figures, have unknown friends. A pastor, gets up each week and uses stories from his own life and family to illustrate points. He expresses his personality week after week in the words, tones, and gestures he uses. A hundred people sit and listen and “learn him” - get to know him more intimately than he will ever know them. Some of them may decide that they’re incompatible.
But a great many of them will realize that he is their friend. He may not consider them his friends: he may not know them well enough to care about them, they may not have opportunities to interact with him, do him favors, and otherwise express love to him via their various love languages.

But these strangers ARE his friend: they love him, as far as they can with what of him they know. And to love a person makes a friend of you both.

And so we DO care about you — genuinely, and in many cases, deeply.
That was true when I wrote it to Tanis, and it's true of you, Amy, as well.




You honor your father.

We honor your father.

I am so sorry.


Oh Amy, I can't even imagine how hard it must have been. You have shown such strength and grace through all of this. My thoughts and prayers for you and your family continue.


Virtual hugs for you, your family and a special one for your mom. Know that we all love you. And I mean that in the most innocent, non-stalkerish, I-realize-we-don't-ACTUALLY-know-you-except-through-this-fabulous-Internet-thing sort of way.

Also, the bit about the bear? Priceless.


As so many commenters have already stated...that was beautifully written and, for me, hauntingly familiar-I just never had the words to express it. Now,take care of yourself...false contractions or no, you need to rest and take care of *both* you and your unborn son. Let Noah and Ezra shower you with the love that children just seem to know that you need right now...Noah sounds so much like my Trace
Love and prayers of comfort and grace for you and your family.

Keeley Jones

Love reading your thoughts. It is strange how we all use the phrase "I'm so sorry" to cover the gauntlet of things.
Many hugs and prayers for you and your family.


I didnt comment to tell you how very, very sorry I am because I didn't think in a million years you'd have the energy to read all those comments. But I was, and still am, praying for you and your family. I hope you can find some peace and some smiles amidst all the terrible that you must be feeling ...


Your dad would have been proud of that writing, as usual.

I hope time will give you peace and, eventually, a smile. I can't imagine what you must be feeling, but you've helped me to realize that when I have to go through this, I'll make it.

Love and prayers to you, your mom and siblings, Jason, Noah, Ezra and Baby.

cristina t

I am so sorry, for you and all of your family. you have been and will continue to be in my thoughts and prayers.


Sending you all love

Kim at allconsuming

In this crazy bizarro Interweb world we love you like family.

Also, is it bad I really want some of the cake?

And may your cactus bloom unseasonably. (not a euphemism)


Thinking of you and your family.


I've been thinking about you and your family every day. I'm so very sorry, again. Your post after you announced his passing just made me cry and cry. I'm so very sad for you but also happy you were able to be with him and your mom during his last days. love to you


I was nodding my head through your whole post. I lost ALL patience with people when this happened to me.
Honestly, it took...years (sorry to say) before I could truly "deal with people" again. There's still a part of me that rages quietly whenever someone says something stupid.

And I feel the same way, "no, it's MY turn now, I can't deal with you or your ridiculous stories, Sorry."

It does, eventually, subside. But I know exactly how you feel.

I know that didn't *sound* helpful, but - I hope that it maybe helps to know that someone in reader-land knows how you feel.

Again, my deepest condolences, Amy.


I'm hundredthing or whatever we're up to that first comment - thank you for sharing your family with us, and allowing us to be a little part of your life.

I wish you all strength and peace again - time does heal the rawness at least, I promise.


playing taps was the worst!


So incredibly moving. Transatlanticism by Death Cab for Cutie was on while I was reading and, well, this was beautiful.



Your words have brought comfort to those of us who read your blog. Thank you for your courage and strength in providing us with a peek inside your life and that of your family. I hope our comments bring you a measure of comfort as well in the weeks and months to come. Please accept my deepest sympathy on the death of your father.


I vowed to punch the next person who told asked how old he was and then told me I was lucky he had a long life. And every thing I ever said to someone else came back to haunt me. There is just no right thing to say. It sucks so bad. We share the pain - I feel yours as I still relive my own.
I am so sorry.


Former lurker. Don't know what else to say but hang in there. Thanks for sharing. Sending you virtual hugs.

Michelle Smiles

I'm so very sorry.

My dad died suddenly 4 1/2 years ago. It confirmed what I've often said - I think funerals are an archaic thing and really punishing on the family. I made all of the decisions and arrangements because I needed something to do so that I didn't start screaming at all of the people who kept bringing food and saying they were sorry. I appreciated the sentiment but standing in the funeral home for 4 hours so everyone could file past and say they were sorry just made me want to sleep for a week.


So, I never know what to say. This is beautiful and sad and perfect. And I am sorry.

Lynda Mary

I didn't comment either, but I wish I had. I'm crying for you and your family and selfishly for me and my family and the fear of losing my own precious Dad. I've been reading your blog since you were trying to fall pregnant with Noah, and I'm also pregnant with my third boy. Thanks for all the beautiful stories you share with us.


I am so, so sorry about your Dad. I can feel the depth of your grief in your writing, and I am so sorry for your family. Please hug your boys- and hold them tight.


Well...but you know what? Thank YOU, Amy. Thank you for sharing your life with us, your beautiful children with us, your husband with us, your wonderful, wry, witty self with us. Thank you for sharing your family and your pets and your whole world with us. I don't comment here much, but I've been reading your posts faithfully for over three years now (or is it four?)...so I'm going to speak for all of your readers who seldom if ever comment and say, again, thank YOU. You make the world a better place.


I am so sorry for your loss. I'm wishing peace and strength to you and your family, especially your mom. I'm glad the cake was yummy.


God bless you, Amy. I have cried for you in both your entries about dad this week and am sending you love and strength from Auckland, new Zealand xxx


Sending good thoughts and prayers to you and your family. If I had warm chocolate chip cookies right now, I'd send those too.



How wonderful that your Dad's physician and staff came to pay their respects. I'm just so sorry they had occasion to, if you see what I mean.
Take care.


I haven't been commenting, but you've been so much in my thoughts. Love to all of you.


You have been in my thoughts since I saw your tweet about your dad's passing. People do say the most insensitive things. I still remember some of the most awful ones from when my dad died, but there were some amazing unexpected kindnesses. A few years later, those are the ones I treasure. I hope the thoughts and prayers from the internet are helping to carry you through.

Jess W

*Love* and *hugs* and again, thank you for sharing. You & your beautiful family make me laugh, cry, and just feel. I hope things get easier.


I don't remember how I found your blog the first time, but I do remember starting to look forward to each new post. Noah's triumphs, Ezra's appetite, the new baby...and being heartbroken over reading about your father.

You're a friend, even if we've never met and you have no idea I'm alive. I'm one of thousands.

And we all care.


You don't owe us anything. There is nothing you "need" to say. And there is nothing we "need" to burden you with (cripes, with the stories people!).
You share so much with us and we so appreciate it. And right now you need the time to do...or not do...or be in the moment...or be distracted....and just start trying to figure out how it will all work from here. But that doesn't have to be figured out right this minute.
Please be as kind to yourself as you can be. And other people should be taking care of you (and your mom and your sibs).
We love you out here. It's not the same as having all of us to "do" for you at home, but still....


Thank *you*. I didn't comment on your last post because, frankly, I was sobbing too hard. In these recent posts, you've managed to say the things I still can't, a year almost to the day I lost my best friend and maid of honor to cancer at 28. I don't know how you've done it, writing so eloquently about such deep, deep pain, but I thank you for letting me share a little piece of your grief. Fuck cancer. Fuck it hard. And big, huge hugs to you and your family.


Hi Mrs. Corbin! I'm one of Amy's devoted readers. I really hope you're reading this. Amy - and her kids, hubby, and extended family - are my favorite folks to read about on the interwebs. Amy's so....honest! Her words are so REAL! And Noah is truly (I'm not lying) my most favorite blogger kid of all; he's the most relate-able to me, and Amy's writing of him makes him the most in-depth, complex, dynamic, *inspirational* little person I've ever grown to care about.

And you know what? Amy, Noah, Ezra, (and hopefully baby Jacob or Jude or JUDE or Abram!) are all here because of you and your beloved husband. Thanks to you both for creating Amy, and her children by extension. Your husband seemed to have lived a long, noble, complex, fun, interesting, dynamic life. I hope and pray his offspring do as well. I pray that you have PEACE during this difficult time, and that you enjoy life for both you AND your husband. We love you all.


I just wanted to say how very sorry I am for your loss and the difficulties of the last few months. I also want to thank you for sharing it all with us. You write so beautifully and evocatively (is that a word?)
about everything you've gone through that I feel as though I know you, even though I don't, really. And you're pretty darned funny, too. Lots of love to you and your family.


When my mom died, I was just about to finalize my divorce. As she was a hairdresser in the town where I grew up--and had been for 30 years--I knew that most of her clients probably knew more about me than I might've been okay with. You know, before I started blogging and airing my shit on the interwebs.

Before the service, a tiny little old lady came up and vice-gripped my arm. "Your mom was so proud of you," she said. "Now don't you go back to that man!" I have no idea who she was, but I loved her an awful lot.

Family, friends, and strangers meant well and were tiring, but, god love 'em, they brought brownies.

You and your family are in my heart, Amy.


you're welcome, thank you, I am so sorry, God Bless You All. I think that covers it for now. and I really mean ALL of it.


I wanted to post before. I'm sorry doesn't cut it. You are brave, and I'm in awe. My 45 year old husband was just diagnosed 2 weeks ago. Stage 4 esophageal. Multiple metastatic. I don't know how we do this. We have kids. I don't know how you did it. I don't know where I will get the courage to say good bye when the time comes and let him go. Please accept my utter desolation at your loss.


Oh, Ellen; no. :,( Please know that prayers (or vibes or karma or however you interpret it) are being lifted for you, your husband, and your kids. Love him, love yourselves, and live your lives like he'd want you to. Much love to those who are grieving lose. <3


Wow,this made me cry. And I'm generally pretty unfeeling. I know this is an awful time... thank you for hanging in there and writing. You and your family mean a lot to a lot of people, and every one of us is wishing you well.


I just finally had a chance to come by and check on you and I was hoping for a belly pic and saw this instead. *hug* Thanks for being so brave and putting yourself out there all the time, no matter how raw it feels. Wishing all the best for you and your family and for the rest of your pregnancy. Your dad sounded like a wonderful person, I know it was a long road, and I'm sorry it has to hurt so much.


I'm so so so sorry and thinking my warmest lovingest thoughts your way. Please take care and hug your boys loads and loads and loads. I know there aren't really words, but ***hugs***

kari weber

Thank YOU for giving your words to people all over that don't know how to say these things. You have been given so many gifts, but your ability to write is one of the best.


Sweetheart, you really don't need to say thank you, because our comments, our kind words and our thoughts are our way of saying thank you for sharing your family with us.

Your words are so beautifully written that we can't help but fall in love with your family, and feel a bit of loss ourselves. It's nothing in comparison to the loss you're feeling, but we comment because we hurt a little with you.

Take good care of yourself, hug Noah and Ez super tight, and remember we're all pulling for you, and sending you all the strength we can.


Still thinking of you all....sending all the hugs we can from the other side of the country. And tell that ceiling fan we're all agreeing that it is time for some serious good to come your way.


Death is the tie that binds us all. We all fear it, face it and live with its consequences. Our condolences are sprinkled with our own previous experiences or the knowledge that we could be next to be dealt the devastating blow. You don't 'get over' this, time doesn't heal it but you do adjust to it and continue your life with an absence where once was a singular special love. It's 18 years since my dad died, he was only 65, and still there is a void in my life but I see his traits in my boys as they grow older and oh how that warms my heart. This I wish for you.




Maxine Dangerous

Sending love. <3


Beautiful. Thank YOU.


Like others have commented, I started to post last week, but felt I couldn't say anything more eloquent than what others, but I was wrong. (I was right in I'm not eloquent, but wrong to not send a note when I wanted to)

I am so sorry for you and your family. Stay strong, hug those boys lots and let the good memories comfort you.

Maggie, dammit

This is beautiful.

Maggie, dammit

This is beautiful.


I addressed your Mom by the wrong name in my comment above (yikes! sorry!!!), but my sentiments are still the same. (hugs)


Oh Amy.
I have cried with you so many times. These last few posts are no exception. I've been reading for years, i don't know when I first added Amalah as a permanent to my Firefox toolbar, but before you were even pregnant with Noah. So I feel ok to say "my friend Amy" just lost her dad. Not just some blog, but my friend. You share such intimate parts of your life...pregnancies, parenting trials, and inner thoughts that most people would only share with their therapist. Thank you for being vulnerable and honest, thank you for being the one to "go first" and share your heart. You make it easier for everyone else to share & unload a bit of their pain, worry, silly thought or parenting fear...just because you said it out loud first, gives other people the courage to speak up or let someone else in on their struggle. I often think how many moms out there who have kids with SPD or something similar, must feel less alone when reading your blog and find comfort in hearing your story. So thank you for sharing and being so open with your feelings. You bring the gift of normalizing to so many people's world...you say things we all think & share about things we all experience, but the difference is you make us all feel less alone.

I moved to Australia from California about 4+ years ago and have a constant fear that I will get a text message from my sister one day saying that my dad is either gone or about to go...reading that portion of the story where you were texting your sister made me realize that i will be like your sister, getting the play by play texts keeping me informed on what is happening. I decided after reading your post "the how" that I needed to book a flight out to visit my parents. I just felt this overwhelming feeling of missing them and wanting a hug from my dad while he still is able. So thank you for reminding me what's important.

I am thankful you have Noah offering cuddles, Ezra saying "yummeeee!" to make you smile, and the occasional tummy kick to remind you what beautiful things are just around the corner.

Thank you for being you, for making all of us feel normal, and for consistently making us cry at work or other inappropriate places to totally lose your shit. :)

You are so loved and please know you and your family are being hugged from your friends in computers all over the world. 

Ps: I'm getting my masters in Psych & taking a class right now called Counseling in Loss. I think i have learned more from your posts/everyone's comments than I have in this entire semester. Thank you for letting me "in".


you are welcome,friend. We all mean that.


Like everyone, I am thinking of you during these crazy dark days. My wish for you is that the most terrible parts of your grieving are as short as possible, and the part where you can smile and remember without your heart breaking all over again comes quickly, and stays. Love and strength to your mom, as well.


Beautiful entry. I am so sorry for your loss. Hugs to each and every one of you.


I am another one who now regrets not commenting before. I am so sorry about your dad's death. I lost my mom in 2002. I hadn't had kids yet and my sister was pregnant with twins, her first pregnancy.

And this post? My GOD. What a writer.


May he rest, gorgeous and whole.



This is such a beautiful post. Just breathtaking.

still thinking of you guys...



I'm a long time reader but first time commenter. My maternal grandparents passed in January and their ashes were interred on Tuesday (4/5) in northern Ohio. It was cold, rainy, miserable and horrible. So in that sense, I'm right there with you. It sucks. I'm sorry. Please know that you and your family are in my prayers.


Beautifully written. Thoughts and prayers are with your family.


It sucks. End of story.

You have put into words, so honestly and eloquently how I felt when my dad died. I remember walking through the supermarket thinking, "My dad just died and life if just going on without him" How unfair that seemed.

And even though I know you have heard it a million times and it doesn't really help ease the pain... I'm sorry.


My dad died of leukemia too. On November 1, 1998. So, I know. And all I can say is that I'm so very, very sorry. It gets better with time, but it takes a while. My mom died almost 5 years later - so, I know. I miss them both terribly. Hang in there.....I wish I could offer more than my understanding and my sympathy.....


Thank you for giving us the gift of your life. Thank you for writing so beautifully and so truthfully. And Thank you for making realize I need to reach out to both my parents and family more often, especially since we live so far from each other.


You are very brave and inspiring. I'm so sorry that you had to say goodbye to your dad this way, but admire that you were willing to be there with him. He sounded like such a kind, loving, wonderful man and I'm sure we only knew half of it.
I hear you on all of the weird shit that happens surrounding losing someone, a funeral, etc.. It feels like getting kicked when you are down. I have to say though, that having to hear and endure some of that after losing my dad made me that much more aware and intentional about how I acted and what I said around others who had lost. I wasn't afraid to go there anymore.
I'm not sure if its helpful or not in terms of your grieving process, but what you went through at the end with your dad can be very traumatic. No one can prepare you for what its like to watch someone die, let alone someone you love. The sounds, sights, etc.. It helped me frame my experience a little more so that when all I wanted to do was destroy my entire living room and scream like a banshee, I didn't feel crazy. It was just part of the process.
Know that you are being supported in prayer as you walk this path and allow the love of those sweet boys and husband of yours to comfort you.
Thank you for allowing us to walk with you through this.


i am so amazed at the beauty of your words during such a [insert words here] time. there is pain and beauty and grace and peace here too.


Oh Amy! I'm so, so very sorry. I'm thinking of you and your family during this very difficult time.


If you're still "home", please give your mom an extra hug from us. If you're back home, get an extra from Jason.

Wishing you some "laughter through tears" and then more laughter than tears...


I wish I could give you a hug, or failing that lend you my slanket for when you're cold.


this week is my dad's birthday - he died a long time ago. I still think of him all the time. It's so creepy and surreal. thinking of you.


Seriously. I can't believe how lovely your writing about this is. You have never been better. It's not the funny that got me hooked to you but it is so much deeper and so lovely. I'm very sorry for your loss. So so sorry for what you are going through. I wish there was more I could do or say.


So sad for you, your writing is so beautiful and moving-as it always is. Prayers for peace of mind and heart for all of you and for your health...take care of yourself and hang in there.


Cancer took my father in 2008, two weeks after I gave birth to my third child. I have cried for you so many times over the last few weeks. I'm crying for you right now.


You don't need to say anything.

But thanks anyway.

Be well.


I don't know why it takes the worst kinds of pain to make the most beautiful writing, but this is once again true.

Thinking of you.


It is exhausting, but six weeks out from my own beloved, adored, wonderful Dad's funeral, I can tell you this.....looking back at all the people who came, sent cards, called, I am proud and touched to see that so many people loved my Dad. I know how wonderful he is, but it was nice and comforting to know that others knew how wonderful he is. Don't know you, but I hate this for you, because I know how I hate it for me.


More hugs. I'm sure all of those comments were cathartic for you and your family. I know they would've been for me.

Annemie Tonken

I've been waiting to send my condolences, mostly because I know how it can feel like this big thing happens and everyone says I'm sorry and then they like to move on and all of a sudden it's like you're the only one still remembering. It's probably not yet that time, but I can't wait any longer to tell you how sorry I am for your loss...

Thinking of you and your whole family.


I had to smile one of those bittersweet smiles when you described some of the visitors and conversations. I remember returning to work, broken and vulnerable, and I was talking to a couple of co-workers who genuinely wanted to hear how we were all doing. Imagine my surprise when someone walked up, started listening, and then said, "Well, that's nothing...during my surgery they cut me from here to here."


Please know that that 2,067 will grow exponentially, Amy. Thanks for sharing your dad with us -- you have honored him with your beautiful, honest writing during this time. May you continue to draw strength from your incredible family as well as from the 2,067 and counting.


Your writing amazes me, and in your grief you still manage to be humorous and eloquent and above all, real. Thank you for the updates, on your family and your boys, and you! Now ger rest, you don't want the third little man to make too early an appearance...

Kim T

Again, I'm so sorry. But I want to echo what a few have said already, thank you for so eloquently and gracefully sharing your story.


Cancer is bullshit. And you don't have to say anything. Not even thank you. Anyone that wants anything back from you because they are connected to your loss through their cousin's brother's second wife's dog is not deserving of it.


Warm thoughts, and light sent to you...


Oh Amy. I don't know you, and you don't know me, but I'm weeping with you and your family. I came in late because I'm not on the internet like I used to be, but I'm now all caught up and my makeup is ruined. Love to you, for whatever it's worth.

Kat C

Add me to the thousands who are so sorry for your loss. I'm thinking of you and your family.

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