Thank you, Mary Lynne, for reminding me how short, and how precious, life really is.
I woke up this morning a very different person because of you.
You can never know how much it hurts me that you had to die for me to learn this lesson, that you did not wake up this morning, and never will again.
She was 26 years old. She died in her sleep of a heart condition she didn't know she had.
To Angela, as she watches her son slip away from her, slowly but surely, draining them both of light and health and happiness.
I'm sorry that there's nothing I can do; sorrier still that there's nothing you can do.
I know you die each night of heartache, and would rather not wake up at all than to wake up to reality.
She never thought she'd have to bury her child. He's 25, and he's counting down his final days.
And for Barb, who mourns for a baby she never got to meet.
We have to believe that it was for a reason, that it was for the best.
That you will get a second chance to be a mother.
That you are stronger than you think.
It was a girl. She just stopped growing.
With much love, Jason and I are thinking of you all.