Over, Part Over
I Should Also Tell You...

The How

When we got there on Friday, it was March 25th, and he was reading the Kindle I’d gotten him for Christmas. He was in a hospital bed in the living room and looked thin and pale and waxy, but he was reading his Kindle. He told me I looked good, referring to my super-pronounced-looking pregnant belly, and I think I said something dumb, like "you too!" that I immediately regretted. 

But honestly, compared to how he'd look in just a matter of hours, it was true. 

Noah walked in and surveyed the room. “PopPop, you sure are sick, aren’t you,” he observed matter-of-factly.

Ezra, thankfully, did not parrot my pre-visit explanations, but merely stuck his finger in his mouth and requested PopPop make his trademark popping sound with his finger and cheek. He obliged, laughing. Ezra giggled, as delighted with the trick as I’d been as a kid.

We hugged, we talked, we gossiped. He teased me about my hair, which he has not particularly liked since I dyed it red. “It’s looking better!” he said earnestly, referring to the neglected, washed-out, two-inches-of-dingy-blond-roots state it’s currently in.

Jason and the boys left to stay at his parents’ house; I stayed behind to keep my mom company. She slept on a recliner in the living room. I went upstairs to sleep in their room, where I was randomly unnerved by the sight of my dad's verse-a-day calendar, still stuck on the Friday from the week before -- the day he agreed to stop, to in-home hospice, the last time he'd been upstairs in his own house. 

Photo (7)

By the time I woke up on Saturday, it had already begun.


Death is ultimately cold, but his started out hot. A fever. Sleeping more and more. Confusion. Disorientation. He was saying things that didn’t make sense, reaching for medications he’d already taken minutes before. We thought, at first, that he'd simply taken an extra Benadryl. Yes, that was what was happening. That explained it. Move the medications away from his bedside, problem solved, here's your Kindle. 

His nurse visited and floated the idea of moving him to their full-time hospice facility. He said no.

He asked for a drink but spilled juice all over the place. We blamed the cup. Probably better off with a lid and a straw anyway, right? That's the problem, surely. I went to the store to find some kind of grown-up sippy cup, eventually stumbling upon some plastic sports cups with obnoxious, cheesy sayings on them.

This was the first one I picked up off the shelf:

Photo (5)

That bit of gallows humor was too much for even me, so I dug around until I found one with an ugly but inoffensive fishing pier design on it instead.

He never really woke up enough to use it. 


I went over to my in-laws to spend some time with the boys. I packed up dinner for my mom and I (Julia Child’s beef bourguignon, courtesy of Jason), but was interrupted by a text message. Come, hurry, something’s wrong, bad, nurse is here again, etc.

I jumped in the car and floored it, called my mom to tell her I was on my way and she asked if I could stop somewhere and buy some liquid Tylenol for my dad’s fever -- he wasn’t awake enough for a pill and his fever was scary high.

“I PACKED THAT. HANG ON,” I shrieked and made a u-turn back to my in-laws and our luggage, where I dug out some generic children’s acetaminophen from the stash of medicines we drag everywhere now and promptly dashed out again.

The nurse tried. He gagged and choked after barely an Ezra-sized dose of a teaspoon. He was on fire, the hottest fever I’ve ever felt from human skin.

She mentioned the hospice pavilion again, gently hinting that it was simply not going to be possible for my mom and I -- neither of us with any nursing backgrounds, nor clearly especially level-headed in the face of a medical crisis -- to keep him comfortable and pain-free at home from this point on. He was so out of it, she said, it was unlikely he’d ever really even figure out that he’d been moved at all.

My mom worried about money because their insurance would only cover a five-day stay. The nurse assured her that arrangements could be made, that no one was ever turned away from their facility for an inability to pay, etc. 

But I could tell she knew already. It wouldn’t be more than five days.

I hid in a coat closet and called my sister, crying because we didn’t want to go against his wishes, but oh. Oh. Oh. We can’t do this. I can’t do this. Mom can’t do this. It’s happening so fast.

Finally, I rationalized that Dad’s wishes to “die at home” were more about not being alone and having us there than the actual physical spot on the map. Hospice meant my mom could stay by his side as his wife and not his caretaker or nurse, for the first time in years. Other people could handle the ugly, more indelicate parts of the dying process. He would understand, if we could fully explain it to him. Which of course, we couldn't.

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay,” my mom said.

Everybody got on the phone except for me. I sat next to him and held his burning-hot hand. I pressed his thumb into some molding compound so I could get a necklace made with the print, but his skin seemed melt right through without leaving much of an impression.

  Photo (6)


Jason rushed over so we could follow behind the ambulance to hospice. I remembered to put the stew in the refrigerator but would later realize I left two entire containers of milk on the counter. 

The hospice facility had TVs, a library, DVDs, CDs, a kitchen stocked to the gills with drinks and snacks and comfort foods for families. I saw a small playground outside. I drank some coffee and ate a chocolate pudding cup. Jason asked my mom if he could buy her dinner and she wanted fast-food hamburgers and French fries. He went to Wendy’s and brought us both back exactly that, plus Frostys.

It was exceedingly quiet. Carpet instead of tile, couches and recliners instead of vinyl waiting-room chairs. No machines save for oxygen, no drapes or beeps or boops or needles or vital sign checks. The nurses didn’t wear scrubs. They all looked like people I’d be friends with in real life, and I loved them immediately. They also did not administer any more Tylenol, explaining that the usual ways of administering it to an unconscious patient were too risky for my father and would only cause more bleeding. They turned up the air conditioning, took off his socks and put ice packs under his arms instead, which eventually brought the fever down enough for my dad’s eyes to open and for him to nod a bit when offered pain medication, which was rubbed directly onto his gums.

“Does he know where he is?” my sister worried and texted from afar.

“I really don’t think so,” I responded, at a loss to adequately explain the waking-sleep state he was in.

I made another run back to the house around 11 pm to get my mom her toothbrush and a change of clothes. When I returned the nurses had set up a bed for her on a cushy recliner, but told her she could climb in bed next to him if she wanted. “We’ll be here if you need us. But not if you don’t.”


I went back with Jason to his parents’ house and slept like shit. My mom texted in the morning that Dad was asking for me, which seemed beyond belief, and frankly, honestly, exhausting. Was last night a fluke? Did we overreact? Move him too soon?

Was this rollercoaster never, ever going to end? 

And was I actually admitting that I kind of hoped it would? 

I arrived and he was awake. He couldn’t talk, but was mouthing a few words and trying anyway. He recognized my face and voice. I called him Daddy and told him I loved him, and he struggled to say it back so I said it for him. I know. I knew. I always knew. He squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. I promised we’d take care of my mom and Jason would take care of me and we’d all take care of the babies and everything was fine. Everything was fine.

He clutched my hands. He rubbed my arms. He touched my face. It was the most desperately perfect moment ever.


His eyes weren't open much longer after that. His legs twitched and his arms pulled at blankets and clothes and his oxygen cannula, which he’s worn for three full years now. He was breathing through his mouth -- a noisy, harrowing-sounding breath, full of blood and secretions -- and the nurse said we could probably go ahead and turn the oxygen off if he kept pulling at it, because he wasn’t getting anything anyway.

We pulled it off. There was no difference. I reached over and hit the power on the machine, plunging the room into silence, except for the sound of that terrible, death-rattle breathing.


My sister called in the afternoon and I held the phone next to his ear. At the sound of her voice, his face twitched into an unmistakable smile of joy. For just a second, then back to peace.


We had to leave. We HAD to. I’d gone through every possibility I could think of, but the fact was we had the final day of Noah’s evaluation on Tuesday morning and rescheduling meant we went back on a months-long waiting list for another open spot.  His IEP meeting was in a week and we wanted the results. We couldn’t miss it. Jason couldn’t get many more days off, I didn’t have childcare for the afternoons, it would take time to make arrangements for later in the week. A hospice nurse whispered that she could babysit the next day, on her day off, but the boys were clearly struggling with the situation and the lack of routine and I flapped my hands around helplessly until my mom grabbed my shoulders and told me to go home, it’s okay, she understood, and hell, he’d understand. Go take care of your babies.

I asked for a few minutes alone to say goodbye. I repeated everything I’d already said that morning. I kissed his head and shrunken cheek and tried to ignore his open mouth, which was seeping with blood from his gums, tongue and cheeks. It was hard to see, but hard not to as well. 

This time, he didn’t respond. His body was still holding on to a vital function or two, but honestly, he was already gone.

I left the room and immediately started sobbing like never before, as the not-exactly-earth-shattering realization that I wasn’t going to see him ever again hit me with the force of rush-hour traffic, oh my God, oh my God, it's not fair, it's not fair.


We got home in under three hours. I didn’t unpack. I took a bath and went straight to bed.

The phone rang at 3:10 am. It was March 28th. And it was over.


I cried for awhile. And then I didn't. And then I did, again.

Then I added a dark-colored maternity dress to my still-packed suitcase and bought a train ticket to go back up to my mom's house, again. 



"I know. I knew. I always knew." This. May he rest in peace. May you and your family have many years of happiness and gratitude for his love.


"I know. I knew. I always knew." This. May he rest in peace. May you and your family have many years of happiness and gratitude for his love.


I am so, so sorry. I wish we could all wrap you in one all-encompassing hug. Love and thoughts to you and your family.


Oh, I'm so sorry for your loss and I'm glad that you were able to say goodbye. I will keep your dad and your family in my prayers.


My heart breaks for you and your family--and cliche words don't serve to make any of this better. I'm glad you all got to say the important things before the end, but that still doesn't make it fair, easy or painless.
You're all in my thoughts.

Cheryl S.

There aren't words. Hospice is wonderful at an awful time. Your dad got to say goodbye and so did you. Much love.


You and your family have been in my prayers. Much love to all of you. I'm so sorry for your loss.


*HUGS* I wish nobody had to go through losing their daddy. I've lost mine too *sad fistbump*


Oh God, Amy. I'm so sorry. I'm at work with tears streaming down my face because you managed to share both the beauty and pain of such a difficult time. Wishing you all peace and love.


*HUGS* I wish nobody had to go through losing their daddy. I've lost mine too *sad fistbump*


I'm sorry, and... I hope all the love from the Internet lifts you and your family up, even just a little.


I was exactly here 5 years ago, exactly 5 years ago. One day you realise that although you are still sad and you will always miss him, you are thinking of all the lovely times. The horror and the every single detail of how they die goes and you remember dancing whith him when you were 7, seeing his face as he gave you away at your wedding, remember him laughing at something...it's such a relief when you start to forget these awful weeks and days and all those beautiful moments come back.
You know how everyone says they haven't really gone, they are always in your heart? It's true and I swear I can feel my dad touch my head sometimes and I know he is still with me.
God bless your family at this awful and sad time. Helen.


There are no words, but I am so very sorry for your loss.



I'm sorry for your loss, Amy, but very glad that you were able to be with him in his last few days. I think he would be very proud of your ability to put all of the love and sadness into writing so beautifully.


Amy-I'm sorry, I know it's not enough to say that though. You told the story beautifully. And I can't believe how you were able to share it with us. You and your mom are so strong. Darn, I wish I had other profound words to write, but hopefully you'll know what I'm trying to say anyway.

sam {temptingmama}

Amy, I am so very very sorry. I wish I had something more comforting to say. I wish there was something I could say to take away your pain.

I am so sorry. Your family in is my thoughts.


I know that this is inadequate, but I am so sorry. I will keep you & your family in my thoughts.


Sending you and your family love.


Sending you and your family love.


I am sobbing right now. Thank you for sharing your final moments with you dad. It was so beautiful to read and utterly heartbreaking. Sending you hugs.


Again, I'm so sorry you have to go through this. I'm in tears.


i am heartbroken for you. my grandfather passed from cancer 5 years ago and it was terrible. lots of love, prayers and good thoughts your way sweetie. xoxo


I am so very thankful your hospice company supported you in exactly the way a loving, wonderful company should do. I worked at a hospice just over a year ago, and sadly, there are some who don't do their sacred job just as well as they should have; thank God yours was able to care for you as much as you deserved. There are no words, so I'll stop, but the strangers on teh Internets love you so much.


I'm again, so sorry. I lost my fiancé to cancer almost 13 years ago, and as awful as it was, as you described it, to see him go through what he webt through, and to be there with him to kiss him, hold his hand and say good bye as he took his last pain-filled breathes, it has come to be, over the years, my greatest comfort that I was lucky enough to have that chance. I know that you will find that comfort too, even though the incredible loss will always hurt. Take care of yourself.


Amy I am so so so sorry for your loss. I completely understand how hard it was for you and your mom to decide on the hospice care. My mom and I struggled with the same thing a few years ago when my grandmother stopped responding to chemo.

Like you said, it allows the loved ones to be loved ones and not caretakers. And that is a gift in those final days and moments that you will appreciate long after now.

And it will get better. It will never go away - there are days that the pain may hit me out of nowhere. But it will get better. I promise.


I've only just started reading your blog but I am so so sorry for your loss.


Amy, I'm sitting here crying reading this... remembering my own dad's death 8 years ago. I wish I had written the entire experience down then, because now I can barely remember what it was like. It sounds nuts to want to remember it, but I always play these scenes back in my head without the detail I wish I had.

My condolences to you and your family.


Lots of love to all of you, I'm so terribly sorry for all of it. It's not fair. It just isn't.


You are so brave, to share this with us.


Thank you for sharing this story.

I'm so sorry. Love to you and your family.

Joy Estelle

I lost my dad in an achingly similar way 10 years ago, except I didn't have my son yet. It's impossible to bear, and yet you do. Even thought it's expected, even though it's a relief, it's so awful. I'm so sorry for you loss. You story made me smile with the palpable love you shared with your father. Please know that there are hearts breaking for you and love being sent to you, your mom, sister and entire family.


This is one of the most touching and heartbreaking things I've ever read. Thank you so much for sharing that, seriously. I'm so sorry :(

cindy w

Aaaand, I'm now crying at work.

I'm so, so sorry. Nobody should have to endure what he went through, what your family went through. I'm just so sorry.


I wish I had something to say that could mean anything. Why isn't there a way to send a hug through the Internet? Tech people really need to get on that.

I'm so sorry for your loss.


Grieving with you. You honor him with your words, they are beautiful.


what a beautiful, strong story. thank you for sharing it. may he rest now, truly in peace. and may YOU rest now, and try to find peace. sending you and your family love and light, amy.


I am sobbing for you right now, but I am so glad you got that last clear, happy conversation with your dad. Those moments are a gift that you will have forever (although forgive me if it seems assholeish to point it out right now).

paulette shirley

Amy, I am sorry to hear of your loss. I did note that you were upset at the fact that you did not get a thumbprint from your Dad because of his fever, for your necklace. The people at thumbies had assured us they could make a necklace from a copy of a fingerprint, from discharge papers, ids, or so forth. My necklace of my sisters print has been a source of comfort for me, and I hope you are able to get one done for you and your family. May your Dad's memory bring you comfort at this horrible time. P

paulette shirley

Amy, I am sorry to hear of your loss. I did note that you were upset at the fact that you did not get a thumbprint from your Dad because of his fever, for your necklace. The people at thumbies had assured us they could make a necklace from a copy of a fingerprint, from discharge papers, ids, or so forth. My necklace of my sisters print has been a source of comfort for me, and I hope you are able to get one done for you and your family. May your Dad's memory bring you comfort at this horrible time. P


I'm glad you got to say goodbye Amy. So sorry for your loss. Internet weirdy friends are here for you xx


Oh Amy... I am both overwhelmingly sad for your loss and thankful that you got to say your goodbyes and I love you's. Thinking of you and yours.


Oh Amy. There just are no words. As I read your post tears filled my eyes and I just cannot even imagine. I am so blessed to still have both my parents and I absolutely dread the thought of losing either one of them. I am so very sorry:(


Thank you for sharing the story.

Heaven gained another angel, March 28th.


I am so sorry for your loss. I am heartened to hear that your family had the help and support of hospice. I know how much comfort they brought my family and myself when my grandmother died.


This one made me cry with you, too. I remember it like it was yesterday for me.

Peace, peace, peace to you Corbett-Storches.


no words by tears for you


no words but tears for you


This was beautiful. Wishing you and your family a lifetime of only good memories, and lots of love from down South.

Becca Lynn

Oh, Amy. I am so sorry. He's not hurting anymore... If I could hug you, I would. :-( If I prayed, I would pray for your mom, your sister, and you. I am so sorry for your loss.

Jenn Kirby

No words, except that was beautiful and hospice is a fucking Godsend, I've been through this too. I wish you and your family peace and comfort during this awful, sad time. (and PS, it's ok to be relieved that it's over and that he went fast. It's better that way.)


I am so very sorry for your loss. I wish you and your family peace.


My heart goes out to you. I am so sorry


Hugging you and your family through my internet connection. So sorry for your loss.


You're taking care of your Mom, and yourself, and the babies, and Jason is taking care of you...

And if you can feel the sadness and support of all of those who were touched by your story of your dad's life and passing... maybe, just maybe just maybe we can take care of you too.

You and yours are in my thoughts.


Love and peace and hugs. I'm here. With soup.


I have been reading your stories for YEARS now. this story has moved me more than any of your others. as I'm sitting here crying my eyes out, I'm remembering this same cancer-sucks-hospice-is-amazing experience that I went through with my grandpa. it was 13 years ago, but still feels like yesterday.

you're right - it's so not fair. thank you for having the love and courage to share. your dad must be so proud of you.


Your dad was a lucky man to have been able to experience the end of his life surrounded by so much love and kindness :)

So sorry for your loss...


Beautiful words. I'm so sorry...


Oh Amy - I'm so so sorry. You did such a wonderful job. I hope in the days ahead you can find some peace for having been with him almost to the end. That death rattle - is exactly as you describe and I so understand the 'hard to look at but you need to look at' part of your post. It's been over 10 years for me now that I sat with my mom and watched her go and while it still hurts and sucks (and I sobbed reading this) I've learned that life goes on and the circle continues and even though I'm not religious, I do know she's with me at certain times and can feel her. Thinking of you so much - hug your boys (and your mom).


Thank you for sharing this with us. Your writing makes everything so vivid. Love and hugs to you and yours.


Thank you for sharing this with us. Your writing makes everything so vivid. Love and hugs to you and yours.


Amy you are a pillar of strength and grace. God bless you and your sweet family.


What a rich man, to have been loved so well by so many. I hope it isn't long before you remember all the good years more often and more clearly than you remember the end.

I'm sorry for your loss.


Thank you for sharing... Words can't express how moving your story is -I've been reading your blog for years (almost since the beginning) and even though we've never met I have looked forward to and enjoyed reading the snippets of your life that you have shared. I can't even imagine how horribly painful this time is for you and your family, but I will keep you all in my thoughts... May you cherish the good memories and may your pain dissipate as the days go on...


Thank you for sharing... Words can't express how moving your story is -I've been reading your blog for years (almost since the beginning) and even though we've never met I have looked forward to and enjoyed reading the snippets of your life that you have shared. I can't even imagine how horribly painful this time is for you and your family, but I will keep you all in my thoughts... May you cherish the good memories and may your pain dissipate as the days go on...


Thank you so much for sharing this story so beautifully, touchingly.

I'm so very sorry for your loss.


Thank you for sharing this, Amy. It is beautiful and heart-wrenching.

Jenn Bo

I can't read comments from others because I need keep the tears in my eyes from spilling over.
Amy, Thank you for sharing. I finally have a glimpse of why people we say it is impossible to understand the death of a parent (or any loved one, I suppose) until you experience it. You've captured the experience in such a way that my heart is breaking for you. Selfishly, I wish my parents many many more years of health.


This morning, I was in the shower trying to get my head back into work after spring break (I'm a school psychologist) and I thought of you and my heart ached, realizing that as a parent of a special needs kid, who benefits so greatly from his services, it meant that you might miss out on being with your mom & dad. If I were friends with you in real life, I totally would have helped with your kids.
much love to you & your family.

Parsing Nonsense

I'm so glad you had that perfect moment with him. Those moments are rare, and it was a beautiful gift you gave each other.


That was really beautifully told. Your father would be so proud.


Typing through my tears and sending love. I'm so sorry, Amy. Thank you for sharing this with us.

Fuck cancer.


My mother-in-law passed away two and a half years ago after a long fight with cancer. She took a turn for the worse on a Friday night, we moved her to a hospice center (against her wishes, in theory) on Saturday and she died on Monday. Reading this sent chills down my spine. It's unbelievable how some moments can be so terribly sad and beautiful at the same time. And hospice nurses .. are angels.

My heart aches for you all, and my thoughts are with you.


You did right by him, Amy. I hope you know that.


So very sorry. May the angels take him into their care, and may they watch over you and your family as well.


I am so happy for you that you got to say goodbye to him. I didn't get to say goodbye to my mother who passed on March 18th. God bless you and help you to remember all the wonderful times with him and see him daily through you precious little boys.


Dear Amy, reading this brought me many tears. Tears for you and your family and the reality of you not having your dad there to hug anymore, tears at the kindness of the hospice care, and tears at remembering doing this with my family and my dad. It's my 32nd birthday today and he has been dead for ten years now. I still miss him like crazy, often with a smile and laugh, but I'm grateful for this quiet moment while my Ezra-age daughter is napping to also remember him with a good hard cry. Thank you for sharing your story. I know how painful it is, and I hope the sharing eases it in some small way. All my love to you and your family.


You have been in my thoughts Since March 28th. You will continue to be so. Love and prayers to you and yours.

Debbie Angelo

Oh, Amy.

I wish that me crying for you could take some of your hurt away. I've been there, just over five years ago. I closed my 53 year-old mother's eyes while holding my 5 month-old firstborn daughter in my other arm. I KNOW.

I'm on your FB list. Please, please, if you need anyone to talk to, day or night, I don't care when, message me privately and I'll give you my numbers to call. I owe you one anyway, since you're a big part of the reason I got a short-term writing gig this summer to follow my dream.

You sow your love everywhere, and you don't even know it, so hopefully you can feel it coming back to you ten-fold.

Take good care of your babies. I was pregnant, both times, with dying parents. Don't forget that they want their baby's baby to be OK, too.

Be well, or at least, hang in there.

-Debbie, Lafayette, CO


Amy, we've been thinking of you. You are so strong, take care of yourself. Sending you as much comfort as the interwebs can handle.


I am so sorry, Amy. I cannot fathom what you must be feeling and going through right now. Thank you for sharing this story. It is beautiful, heartbreaking, but beautiful.

It reminds me so very much of when my father-in-law was in hospice. It made me cry, but it also made me smile remembering the tender moments we were all able to share.


Thank you for sharing this - it's touching and beautiful and real. Thinking of you and your family.


So heartbreaking. I don't even know how you can bear to write it, but I hope it is at least a tiny bit cathartic and I'm so very sorry for your loss. Cancer sucks.


Those hospice nurses are amazing, aren't they?

I've been thinking of you off and on all last week and weekend. I am so terribly sorry that your father had this fight with cancer and has sadly passed. Sending you hugs from Ohio.


Thank you for sharing, though I know it must have been hard. Death is a part of life, and I feel it's so important not to hide it away.
Thanks again. Your words are beautiful and true.

Rebecca (Bearca)

Oh. I am so sorry, Amy. I am thankful for your words even though I am sure they were hard to write. Be well, you and your boys. xoxo


Words just don't do enough in times like these, but please know that you're in my thoughts and that you have so many people that care about you and your family through this interweb community thingy. Take care of yourself.

Springsteen fan

What is the sound of the internet weeping? It's right now. Amy, we are so, so sorry.


Oh Amy, I'm so sorry for your family's loss.


So, so sorry, Amy.

Praying for you and your family.


A million hugs to you and your family. I am so deeply sorry. May he rest in peace.



I'm so sorry Amy. My heart goes out to you and your sister and mom, to Jason and your sweet boys. May your dad rest in eternal peace.

((a thousand hugs))


I couldn't finish reading, I'm sobbing. For you, and for me. I remember telling my Daddy that is was okay, that my husband would take care of me, I'd take care of my brother, and everyone would help take care of my unborn twins. And that's what he needed to hear.

He's with me, always. Yours will be with you too. I promise. I am so sorry for you loss.


I just had to shut my office door. I was choking back a sob.

You wrote about this so beautifully and how lucky he was to have so much love.


I am so so so very sorry Amy. I've never met you, and really I only started reading your blog a few months ago, but I just had the hardest time reading this entry because I was literally sobbing. It was very poignant and moving.


Sending love. It sounds like he was so surrounded by love... and I hope you are still feeling it now.

Missy Carvin

I am so sorry. I am bawling at my desk. And I am so, so sorry.


I am undone by your story, amy. On my knees on the kitchen floor, weeping into my sleeve so the sobs dont wake the children. I am so sorry. Words fail.


So, so sorry, Amy. I'm crying for you, and hoping with all of my heart that your pain begins to lessen a tiny bit every day.


So incredibly heartbreaking. Hugs from Costa Rica, which is, like, really far but still. There's someone who thinks of you and cries with you all the way down here in Central America.

<3<3<3<3 to you and your family.

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