Cherie — if you are reading this you have survived — PRAISE GOD! That means you will soon be coming to get your kids and start a new life in Arizona — or that you are settled and well in Lake Isabella and I am bringing them back. That is up to you and Bob.

This is ONLY until you recover — until you are up and about and well. Temporary – Laura & I.

You have been at the doors of death since last Friday — and been through two brain surgeries, an ambulance trip and helicopter trip to Bakersfield.

We have watched you lie in a coma with a machine breathing for you, and tubes keeping you hydrated, nourished and drains relieving the pressure in your brain.

Your beautiful hair will grow. 😦

You have survived and people all over the country have prayed for you. You are a miracle.

I love you.

Laura & Mom

Note: This is a letter I left with the night nurse in ICU at Bakersfield Memorial Hospital in California the evening Laura and I left to return to Tucson, bringing Cherie’s two children with us, Shane, 11 and Bobbie, 10. My stomach was in a knot with the thought that she might wake up, and learning that her kids were with me, think I had taken them away from her. That alone could have killed her.

The letter was put in her medical chart, a copy on her wall and instructions given to be sure she read (or heard) it if she regained consciousness and coherence to read/hear it.

(Sadly, it was never needed.)

Laura and I had driven over Friday afternoon, February 19, after the call from her husband that she had collapsed in the shower and been rushed to the hospital. She was now on life support and had pneumonia.

I had raised her two older children, Brian (now 20) and Laura (now 19). Even though she gave up guardianship, in fear that the judge learning she was pregnant with Shane would take him too, she had always looked at it as though I took them from her.

She had a ruptured aneurysm on the right side between her eyebrows and had been in a coma ever since. First a medical coma, to let her brain rest, then when taken off the medication that kept her asleep, did not wake up. Eventually she did open her eyes, but it was not the good sign we had hoped. First her eyes did not focus together, then when they did, she was in absolute terror and distress.

The doctor told us that the right frontal lobe and both rear lobes had been destroyed by the bleed. This meant that if she recovered, her memory and personality would be hopelessly impaired. Our loving, funny, caring, curious Cherie would no longer be inside this shell of her body. She would be in a vegatative state from now on.

Her dad, when told, said people could live without a personality, after all, he had for 75 years.

Her older son, Brian flew to be with her, while she was still in a coma and needed support when she opened her eyes with such anguish. I went back over to California and stayed until after she was extubated and only then, relaxed and breathed on her own and rested.

Not bearing to talk on the phone to people, but desiring prayers of friends, I used Facebook to post her status and ask for prayers. Replies of love, prayer and support flooded in from friends as far as England and Africa. Facebook turned out to be a great tool for this.

She was moved to a private room and although basically non-responsive, several times changed her breathing patterns drastically, seeming to take part in our conversations, with approval or exclamation points.

Brian and I were discussing moving her closer to the side of the bed so we could lie beside her and hold her. Not wanting to ‘disturb’ her, we discussed if we should or not. Finally, I looked over to her, lying there peacefully breathing slow and steady and quietly, and said, “Cherie, do you want Brian to lie down with you?” She suddenly gave three huge, loud sighs and Brian said, “I’ll take that as a Yes.” So we moved her and both had chances to lie beside her and hold her.

Brian barely had left the room since she was moved from ICU. He finally went to the Hope House where we had a room, to take a shower and a short nap.

Laura was caring for the two younger children and knew Cherie was dying. We learned that their dad, when asked by them how Mommy was doing, had been telling them good or fine. He didn’t want to hurt them, understandably, but they were being misled.

We got them on Facetime with their dad so he could prepare them for her death, with Laura standing by for them, to comfort them and the Hospice lady with us to guide Bob and me.

I had been sitting watching her breathe, slow and steady, during his talk with the kids. When Brian opened the door to come back in the room, old blood came from Cherie’s nose, and as I wiped it away, Brian asked “when did she stop breathing?”

And she was gone.

It seemed that as soon as her smaller children knew the truth, with Laura beside them, and Brian walked in the room, her family circle was complete and she could leave.

Our beautiful, fun-loving, deeply caring, precious Cherie was forever gone.

No longer in pain from crushed vertebrae in her back. No longer addicted to drugs. No longer dealing with emotional pain from her fathers abandonment. No longer decrying her brother’s shame and anger at her. No longer feeling guilt over absolutely everything she was powerless to change.

Free to see her brother, Danny in heaven. Her grandparents, Floy & Richard, and Annie & Berlin. Her great-grandparents and more she had never met. Free to be with Our Lord, who had walked her path with her, always reaching out to help her and loving her.

We now get to bear the pain, of losing an amazing daughter, sister, mother, wife; looking at her photos in her phone to see her world from her eyes. Noticing the color lime green, every time we see it, because it was her absolute favorite. Wanting to buy every pig, stuffed or ceramic that we see, because she loved them so and we always bought them for her. Listening to the Fight Song by Rachel Platten that we so wanted to help her fight to recover. Listening to songs by Lauren Daigle reminding us that we can “Trust in You”; Citizen Way reminding us the though ‘Everything’s not fine, I’m not okay’ that we still could come to Him for His love and comfort.

Its been hard to listen to Danny’s music, since she’s gone, since we kept it playing by her bedside her last two days. She missed him so much, and it seemed comforting to her (or to us) as we sat with her, counting shallow breaths and loving her.

We put together a beautiful memorial for her, using the words of songs that spoke to my heart, a paraphrase of a poem to a daughter that I found on a coffee cup, of all things, and a slide show of photos from her phone. Our Pastor Mike read the paper I wrote him telling of her life, in its entirety, that becoming her eulogy. He preached a beautiful sermon of God’s love and forgiveness. He told us that drugs won’t keep us from heaven. Bad things we do won’t keep us from heaven. Only NOT believing on Jesus will keep us from heaven, and Cherie totally believed in Jesus. Those other things will just make our life here more miserable, but with faith in Christ we can overcome them, because He paid it all for us.

I was able to video the sermon on my phone in 6 segments (I was afraid I would run out of storage and lose it all) and post it on You Tube. I was able to turn her slide show into a Quick Time movie and post it on You Tube. Lauren Daigle’s team gave me permission to use her music with the slides!

Laura and I share custody of Shane and Bobbie until their dad can sell their house and move out here. The struggle is real, as they don’t really respect Laura as an authority figure (and me sometimes) and she’s hurting from losing her mother, as well as the hope of more time with her someday. Her significant other has been non-supportive, not understanding why it is such a loss for Laura, since her mother didn’t raise her. This has caused even more pain for Laura, because you really expect your closest friend to care for your pain.

My work has been supportive for me, letting me bring the kids at times, as long as they aren’t disruptive and no one complains. The residents love them, they bring young blood to the place and fresh faces.

We started attending Tu Nidito (Your Little Nest), a children (and adults) grief support group, and I think it has much healing in it’s walls for each of us. I hope for Laura to attend their young adult group.

Life goes on, I find myself at the computer looking at her slideshow over and over. Writing about Cherie gives me comfort and release, as well. Maybe now I can write my book.