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It’s been almost a year since I’ve hit that illustrious orange “publish” button. In a few moments (or hours, or weeks, if the past fifty or so are any indication) when my finger hovers over the mouse, I’m sure it will be trembling. Because this is scary. This is one of the hardest blog posts, or series of words in general, I’ve probably ever written. While I normally spew flowery prose with gin on my breath, this story is sobering. And shitty. And exactly why I have stayed away for so long.

But this space won’t be abandoned. And this story should be told.

There are moments in one’s life that define you.

Some of these are intended upon. Strived for. Worked towards. Some moments, like the confident stroll across a stage in a cap and gown, are planned and hoped for, for years upon years in advance.

And others…

Well. Other moments come barreling down the pipeline of your life and nearly all but run you over. Some unforeseen moments sneak up on you so maliciously, and rob you of any joy or wits you may have had, that you’re left trembling, and useless, and scared. Some moments test the very fiber of your being with the heaviest weight you’ve ever felt.

For me, one of the moments came on the eighth of July last year, when my mom had a brain aneurysm and a stroke.

That moment was quick, and harsh, and so very, bitterly, real. We had returned from a week on a lake in Michigan with Matt’s family late the night before, and as soon as I woke up that morning, my dad was calling.

And back to LAX I went.

Before July, things were maybe taking shape. We left Boston for Los Angeles the last week of February, my decade-old Honda Civic packed to the absolute gills. We set out on a road trip to remember, and I loved every moment in that tiny, smoke-filled coupe with Matt, westward bound. The night we left Massachusetts, we stayed with my parents. Determined to get to Matt’s family in Chicago in one grueling, fifteen-hour drive, and the promise of more snow looming, we hit the road around 4AM. I kind of knew they would, but my parents woke up to see us off.

I remember clutching my mom in the family room, standing on the floor I’d crawled on since 1984, sobbing.

And thanking her.

And sobbing.

Because I knew in that moment, she was so proud of me for taking this leap of faith.

For exiting my comfort zone.

For being who I am-- this wildly fierce combination of her and my father. Her sensibilities, his ridiculous demeanor. Her excellent taste, his ceaseless curiosity.

Her face. His eyes.

And so, that day in July, I went home, on the longest direct flight on my life, and hopped a cab to Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center in Boston. I was breathless, and weary, and scared when my brother and sister-in-law met me outside. I took the elevator up to the sixth floor, and my dad bounded the corner as I wheeled my bag down the hall.

“Al,” he said, his voice so high and tight I barely heard him. “Where’ve ya been?”

I collapsed into him and relished those words. Back in the day, when my mom and I would go on shopping excursions that inevitably lasted hours longer than our initial intent, we would pull into the garage, and my dad would open the door and say the same thing every time. Half joking, half “how-much-did-you-spend,” he always called out to us:

“Where’ve ya been?”

“I’m here,” was all I managed, soaking his t-shirt in tears. And then, of course, “how’s mom?”

I saw her, intubated and asleep in the SICU, almost unrecognizable to me. She’d been home with my dad when it happened, and to this day I cannot count the amount of lucky stars I have for that. My father acted immediately and fearlessly, and two EMTs saved her life in their North Andover driveway that day. She was med-flighted to Beth Israel, where would stay in the SICU, unconscious, for almost three weeks, neurosurgery looming. While she clung to life, the best nurses in the absolute world took care of her.

The first couple days went by in a blur. A former boss turned very good friend of mine let us stay in his South End apartment while he drunkenly toured Iceland, so we didn’t have to sleep on the waiting room floor after that first night.  I turned 30 two days later, which was the punch in the gut if I’ve ever felt one.

I remember my dad writing something, or completing paperwork that morning, and looking up at me.

“It’s your fucking birthday,” he said, before bursting into tears.

Obviously I couldn’t possibly care less that this wasn’t the way I’d hoped to ring in my third decade on the planet.

Obviously, the only thing I remotely cared about in that moment was my mother waking up. And pulling through.

But to see his heart ache for me like that was so absolutely gut wrenching—and an obvious reminder that I am forever his little girl.

That night, my dad, brother and uncle took me to the dive bar Clery’s, across from our temporary South End digs, and we tried to make the best of things. We ate basket after basket of chicken wings and downed beers around a high top, surrounded by drunk college kids. When my friend Olga showed up to take me out for a few (more) drinks, my dad was determined for a send off. Half drunk, half manic—Steve Beauchesne walked around the bar and offered cash to intoxicated young people until someone sang Happy Birthday to me.

I left in tears, of course. And spent the rest of the night with my friends.

My friends.

What can I possibly say about how good to me my friends have been?

That night, Olga picked me up, spent some requisite time with my family and showed them the most conservative yet foul-mouthed Russian-American broad they’d ever seen, and brought me to see her husband, an amazing chef and dear friend. He sent out this lemon meringue pie.

And then engulfed me in a hug that left my legs dangling.

We went to Courtney’s after, and I sat on her roof deck into the wee hours with everyone, counting my blessings and cursing my fate at the same time.

So I won’t hold you on a hook too much longer.

My mom did wake up. And, weeks later, she did speak.

And she eventually moved from Beth Israel, to Spaulding, to North East Rehab…

To home.

She came back home two weeks ago. And while the war is still raging, she is winning every battle she sets out to.

I am so very, painfully lucky to be able to say this. I have never been so humbled than I have in the past six months, and I suppose I am grateful for that in and of itself. While I would never wish this fate upon anyone, I must admit and respect any good that’s come from what’s happened.

For starters, there’s my dad.

Steve has always been a stand-up guy, in my mind. He worked hard and diligently for decades to ensure my brother and I were allotted all the trappings of a childhood spent in North Andover.  But I never expected to see him have to step up to the plate the way he has. He is my mother’s biggest advocate, and best friend. He does exactly what needs to be done with studious dedication. He asks questions, pays attention, and gives my mom his relentless devotion every day.  Their relationship is built on a lifetime of love and honesty, and I can only hope Matt and I are as rock solid forty years from now as they are.

On that note, I’d be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge that this tragedy has brought my family closer, including my fiancé. My parents were once skeptical of Matt, his free-wheeling, guitar-toting spirit wasn’t exactly what they’d envisioned their quasi-business-woman daughter to marry. But over the years, I’ve noticed them noticing us.

And when shit went down in July, and Matt hopped a flight to Boston a week after my mom’s stroke, my dad fell, hard, for my bearded buddy. He finally saw in him exactly what I do: a shining light, a burst of laughter in a somber room. An all around, genuine, good kid. They talk and text often now, and it brings a smile to my face every time.

I still can’t believe this happened so shortly after moving. It was like we got to LA, my nephew was born, I put my finger in an immersion blender (legit), I went home and met my nephew, we went on vacation to Lake Michigan, and… boom. July 8^th.

It really just happened so quickly. And I am so very lucky to have my brother back east. He has taken the reigns when my dad has been too upset or weary to think, and lent his strong, quiet support to all of us. He’s also a new parent with a demanding job, yet manages to cheer me up, treat his wife with kindness, and dote on his son. He has absolutely blown me away.

So the added, unexpected visit with my nephew were a silver lining. As were the copious visits, texts and calls from my friends and family—Matt’s included. To know the entire brood of Chicago people in my life are thinking of my mom daily fills me with happiness. I’m winning the in-law lotto, people.

The week my mom came home, I went out to Boston and stayed with my parents. I made my mom grilled cheese and pasta salad, along with plates of frozen meals for later. Just as I had when she was in the ICU last summer, I stood at their beautiful new kitchen counter and melodically chopped vegetables with a glass of wine by my side. Throughout every change, travesty or curveball last year, one thing was a constant:

I’d be in the kitchen.

I whipped frothy egg whites and baked macarons. I simmered meat and beer in a stockpot until it fell apart. I soaked cornhusks and steamed tamales. I churned ice cream, and baked bread. I put music on, took off my shoes, and got back in the kitchen. Even with one bandaged hand, or tear-stained cheeks.

Every time.

It’s what made me want to return here so badly, and write about what I’ve been making, and seeing, and taking photos of. It’s not that I wanted to stop writing—I just had to keep things to myself for a while.

A year, apparently.

Now that I am back in LA, I see my parents daily via the magic that is FaceTime. Most of the time, it’s the early evening here, and I’m leisurely washing dishes or prepping vegetables for dinner.  I have a totally normal, sometimes boring even, conversation with my mom—and am so overwhelmed with gratitude.

There was a second that I was sure this would never happen again.

And yet here we are.

A perfect moment.