Dear Bernie Mac,

When I was 18, I got to watch your show ”The Bernie Mac Show” with my oldest sister, even though I knew about the show for a while. When she put the DVD into her DVD player, and we started watching it together, I quickly started laughing hard at the things you were saying and how you said those words.

But, the more I watched the show, the more I would learn that there was a kind heart behind your tough exterior. You would also remind me of a few family members, in terms of how you tried to discipline your sister’s kids on the show. You would start to feel like family to me, even though we never met in life.

I’ve never felt that kind of connection to a celebrity before you.

As I would get more into your work (movies and your stand-up), I would be inspired by how you spoke your mind, even though it could be some very shocking stuff. But, your fearlessness to say bold things in front of lots of people in your stand-ups, inspired me to speak my mind in my own way.

Even though you passed away in 2008, your fearlessness, courage, and big heart continue to move me through your interviews, stand up & movie clips on YouTube.

Thank you for helping me find my own strength and courage.
Gerald

I first heard about you thru your brilliant performances in movies. That first movie was “Barefoot in the Park”. You were a non-traditional wife. You played that character as a woman who was not afraid to demand from the people around her what she wanted from them. That role probably reflected who you were as young woman. Somewhere in time, I decided to read your biography. Your Mother took her life when you were just 12 years old. Needless to say you had a very unhappy childhood even though your Dad was a very famous star.
I guess I was drawn to you because you were and still are so talented, beautiful and smart. I wanted to be the kind of woman you were. You have always been brave and very outspoken about important political issues, even when those issues were not popular.
About 10 years ago I was lucky enough to see you perform live in a broadway show. You had a scene where you were required to cry. The tears started rolling down. You must have had a lot of pain in your heart to be able to shed those tears night after night. After the show I got to meet you at the stage door. I told you how the scene with your father in “On Golden Pond”where you and your Dad cried was so touching. You expressed love to each other which your character and your father’s character never did. It was obvious to the audience that this scene was actually real life. It was very powerful and it really moved me. It taught me that one should always express their love. You never know when that opportunity will be taken away from you. Thank you Jane for opening up your heart to the world. Thank you also for being a strong voice for climate control. You strive to save the world.

Your admirer,
Shelley

Sent from my iPhone

Dear Karina,

I am fortunate that you decided venture out at work and talk to a coworker that wasn’t in your department. Starting a simple conversation about a potential shared interest, “Do you like rock music?” seemed so easy for you. You’ve told me in many different ways over the years, you saw what made us different from everyone else is what made us the same as each other. We loved the depths of life. The depths that inspired people to create things and things that inspired people to explore depths. We loved music and art that would make us think and feel, and we loved having someone to unapologetically share that with.

I remember being uncomfortable with the amount of praise and recognition you would offer me at work. You’d applaud my poetry and indulge my tangents. You always had something encouraging to say whether I was sharing my plans or my apprehension. After just a few short months of friendship, you gave me several journals and told me to fill them up. Over nearly 7 years, these journals have given me the chance to hold and see myself the way you held and saw me.

Karina, the way you have pushed me to reach my potential has given me the most empowering perspective. The amount of childlike excitement you have instilled in me during every venture I take up is the type of championing that I always wanted.

You saw in me what I see in everyone else, someone who is capable of anything so long as they don’t over complicate it. “Do you like rock music?” will forever be the most memorable (and casual) line to start one of the most fulfilling friendships.

I’m so lucky to have an advocate like you.

Dear Mom,

You once told me that you don’t worry about me because you know no matter what, I will always be OK. You said to me that throughout my life, whatever challenges I faced, I somehow always managed to persevere. You told me you know me better than anyone else. After all, you’re not only my mother but also my best friend.

You know everything about me.

Mom, through all my life’s challenges, you have been by my side.

When my fourth-grade crush pretended to throw up when he found out I liked him, you told me, “Don’t worry, you’re beautiful, and there will be plenty of boys that will like you.”

When my first love broke my heart, “You told me to let it go – not to give him the power to make me sad or ruin my day.

When I did poorly on a test in school, you would spend hours studying with me.

When my boyfriend died, “You cried with me at the funeral.”

When I started The Unsealed, “You told me to go for it.”

And each day, when I share my fears and worries as an entrepreneur, you tell me to keep going. You tell me you believe in me. You give me ideas, and you help me to keep pushing.

Mom, you have seen me bounce back from a broken heart, disappointment in my career, and loss. And while, yes, I have always been OK, I believe it is because I have always had you.

I love you so much. Your support, love, and constant presence are the secret to my strength.

Thank you,

To the beautiful ray of light that beamed through the windows of my hollow heart, in my darkest times. I never thought that I could need you more than you needed me. Before you were born, your dad and I were preparing ourselves for your arrival. We moved into a bigger home, I was nesting, we received many gifts from our family, your parents were reading a lot about your growth and grasping an idea of what having a newborn in our lives could possibly mean. Right before you arrived, the home we had just moved into was being taken away by the very same person who let us in. The landlord of where we were rented and had just moved in two months prior to your birthday, was making sure we lived uncomfortably. Before we could move, you were here and we already had spent so much money, to just leave it all behind. As we were just coping with our external and internal fears, we were just getting the hang of a routine and lacking sleep through it all; I was trying to recover physically and mentally with the changes that were happening simultaneously and still, we were forced to leave with you, in our arms. Mommy was a journalist, she worked in news, Daddy operates cameras and we were in the same field, meaning that the hours were all intertwined, our lives were fast-paced and I couldn’t be who I used to be now that I was different. I tried to incorporate myself into society as casually as possible, in the meanwhile, we were dealing with medical bills, packing our recently unpacked bags, managing our newfound relationship as parents, learning the day-by-day function of feeding you, bathing you, putting you to sleep and helping you learn new things as you transcended through your milestones.  

One evening, I arrived home, I got to see your beautiful face after a long day of work and I went to our room to pack some shoes into another box, that was underneath our bed. I collapsed, my body was still, I couldn’t ask for help. Your daddy came into the room, wondering why everything had suddenly become silent and as I laid on the floor, he said: “if you’re tired, go lay on the bed”; I was stuck. When I tried to move my lips to get the words out: “I had fallen unexpectedly”, I couldn’t speak. The words that came out were slurred and my eyes were unstable and I was paralyzed. Daddy, while holding you tight in his arms, called 911, and was checking my vitals. The ambulance came for me and the doctors said I needed to follow up with a neurologist because it seems that my brain may have been reacting to the highly stressful environment we were undergoing. This was not the first and last time I was at the hospital that year. I spent the majority of your starting life, recovering with you. Between moving from house to house, to sleeping in family’s living rooms, to you sleeping in a bassinet instead of your crib that was gifted to you because of limited space, to feeling degraded for asking for help, to feeling depressed because it was not the life, we imagined to give you, just a few weeks before. I was out of work all that time during recovery and so when I had finally returned from medical leave, I couldn’t stop feeling how I felt that same day I collapsed. So, I left my career and I was lost for a little bit more, but I knew that I needed to take the risk on myself, to find reward.  

Then, I found myself through your eyes. I forgave myself and became more gracious with me. I started to learn how to be patient with myself. I learned how to love myself a little more by taking care of my physical and mental health. I realized I depended much on other’s acceptance of me and not my own. I started to set up my own standards, what I defined as happiness and built myself from the dirt, up. I started to slow down and smell the roses. I started visualizing the life I wanted and slowly but surely it started to manifest. All the while, I thought home meant a house, but you taught me, home was us. It is the light you brought into our lives that moved mountains for us, brought expansion, happiness, self-acceptance and pure love. Even through our darkest moments, you taught us that we must love who we are, what we have and abundance will come, discretely and unexpectedly. It is you who taught us that no matter what we go through, we are glorious in who we are and can do anything we set our minds to. I left behind an old and outdated mentality. I removed the circumstances that no longer brought purpose or joy. I appreciated the mornings, the evenings, the minutes in between, to the fullest, now that I knew how simplicity can bring fulfillment. I am only relaying the lessons you’ve taught me my dear, for you taught me to love me, in all of my phases, in all of my shapes, feeling blessed with little on our plates, with a simple roof over our heads and a pillow to sleep on. It’s contemporaneous what we lived in your first year of life. We lost so much yet gained plentifulness. So, love yourself in all your stages, appreciate the little or lot that you have, be honest with yourself and make yourself proud, not anyone else. You need to learn how to be grounded, so that you can rise. Don’t let the bad times define you, they’re temporary. Always be humble, always be grateful, always love yourself and love will find you every day. Thank you for being our sun, our new day and our new beginning, the beaming light of our life.  

To my future children,

Although I haven’t met you yet, I want you to know that I love you. With every fiber of my being, I feel a love coursing through my veins that only belongs to you. I dream of the day that you’re in my life, and I am brought to tears when I realize that moment won’t be happening any time soon.

I am still living at home with my parents, and their word is law. My parents, your grandparents, are hard people. The things that they’ve been through have shaped them in ways that I could never understand, and it’s shaped the way they parented me. I know they love me, and I love them, but their love was never easy. I’ve tried over the years to fit into the mold of “perfect daughter” and I very rarely was able to. However, I’ve come to realize that I can’t live a life pursuing a dream that isn’t mine. I see why my parents raised me the way they did, I see where they lost their way. I know that the only way I can help them is by starting my own path. 

I hope they are good grandparents to you. If my father is still around. I know he will be a great grandfather. I don’t know how my mother will be, but I know she will love you. I want so badly for them to be better because I want them in my life, and in yours. Because when my mother laughs, truly laughs, the whole room lights up. Her voice is as easy as Sunday morning, and it travels from your ears to your heart. With her around, you’ll never frown. You’ll have the best adventures, and you will learn to laugh at anything. My dad’s hugs are comforting and loving. He will teach you to love hugs, just like he did me, and his father before him. He is dependable, and hearty, and you will love every minute with him. I have memories of my grandparents, and even though they weren’t the best parents, they made up for it in their older years. They loved me, and every memory of them is a cherished one. 

So, instead of being angry with my parents for the “what ifs” and “what could’ve been” I will take note. Taking with me what they did right, and leaving behind what didn’t work. I will continue living for the life I want for myself, and although I’m living through one of the most difficult moments of my life, I will continue to look forward to life.

When I think of you, my future son(s) or daughter(s), I think of you through all stages of life. As an infant, when you’re still reliant on your parents constant attention and care. Then as a toddler. The time where you first begin to explore the world outside of yourself. You’ll test boundaries, and patience, but you’ll learn so much. Then as a child, a teenager, an adult. Your life will be yours to live through, and I can help guide you, but I know you won’t always listen. My advice to you, listen to me every once in a while. I know I talk a lot, but some of the things I have to say are useful. 

I know you will be beautiful, and I hope you will be kind. But really I just want you to be yourself. I want you to express yourself, to be free of influence, and follow your dreams. Such bold, sweeping, statements, but it’s true. I will always be there to support you, but your life is yours, and I dream of what you will do with it. I dream of the things you will say, the laughs you will have, the time you will spend with others, and the time you spend alone. I dream of your hobbies and quirks, your daily routines and your bad habits. I dream of the friends you will make, and the family you will have. 

I also dream of the mother I will be to you. The mother that kisses boo-boo’s and sings lullabies. The mother that scolds you when you hurt bugs, and the mother that dances wherever she feels like it. I’m sure there will be times where you’re embarrassed of me, but I hope that I will teach you to never be embarrassed for being yourself. I will be a mother of care and concern, and also a mother that fosters independence and self-reliance. I promise to support you and love you. I promise to encourage your curiosities, and nurture your personality. I promise to protect you from what I can, and prepare you for what I cannot. 

I love my parents, and I know they want what is best for me, but I never really knew who I was. Most of my decisions were made based on what I thought my parents wanted. My favorite color was purple, because it was my dad’s favorite color. I wore the same pair of baggy jeans for a year, because my mom told me she liked them. I disliked Xbox games, because my dad disliked them. And when my mother grew a distaste for fruit, so did I. It wasn’t until I was 19 that I met a dear friend of mine. She helped me find myself outside of my parents.

For the first time, I knew what my favorite color was: green. I knew what hobbies I liked, and I pursued them. I had a job I was happy with, even though my parents didn’t approve, but it didn’t matter to me. I bought myself fruit for the first time in years, and I ate as much as I wanted. I took baths with salt and oils in them. I splurged on what I wanted, treated myself to things I liked, and I was happy. For the first time I saw how life was meant to be lived. I decided then, that I would never go back to the way it was before. I want my parents to enjoy life like that too, but they’re set in their ways. I grieve for them, but it’s not my place to fix it for them. They are the only people capable of that.

Not all good things last forever. And I won’t lie, it’s hard to see the bright side while living through the darkness. Although I told myself I would never go back to how things were, some habits are harder to kick than others. But then I experience something. A moment between blurred monotony. Like when I step outside, and the sun warms my cold skin. Or when the passing of the seasons becomes imminent in fallen leaves and chilly mornings. Or when the stars at night are the same as they were the night before, but they’re still just as exciting. Whatever it is, it’s a glimpse into what is still there, of what I can achieve. I can see a life ahead of me, even if I have no idea how I will get it, I know I can, and because I can, I will. 

I will do everything in my power to protect you from unnecessary pain, but your life won’t be easy. If it were easy there would be no point. We are human, and therefore there will be challenges, but I hope to equip you with the tools to help you overcome them. That is my responsibility to you, my child, my children, that is the purpose of this love. Be happy, dance, hold your friends, and love animals. Laugh when you fall, and cry when you’re happy. Experience life, experience emotions, and appreciate what you have. 

Sincerely,

Dear future cinephile, the child born into the next generation,

Hey, there, kid. You do not know me, nor will we cross paths, at least, not for a long time. However, I do know you. You are the chosen one, the child who will bring kindness and good fortune to those around you, who will be kind to the old people in grocery stores and pick up the soup for them on the high shelves as you stand on your tiptoes, your half centimeter shortness in height the only barrier between you two, preventing you from making sure that grandma gets her eight cans of tomato basil to nourish her for the week. You will persevere, perspire, and keep your balance steady as you bring yourself to the correct measurement to obtain that soup. Justice for grandma’s tummy! 

Okay, maybe that was a little dramatic. I tend to behave like a kid. 

Look at me, writing “Justice for grandma’s tummy” at 23 years of age. Grow up, Meghan! Jeez. 

You might think I sound like the grandma who needs the soup from my tangent, but you must know that I have always been a grandma – or, a grandpa, for that matter. 

You see, my grandpa was a cinephile of sorts. Basically, that means that he really liked movies. But he liked movies in a different way than most people. My grandpa and my grandma gave birth to four children, my father, my aunt, and my two uncles. They were all under the care of my grandparents, and all have different types of personalities, yet all come from the same couple. What brought my father, his siblings and my grandpa together were their visits to the local movie theatre. Basically, my grandpa took my father and his siblings to the movies when he wanted to bond with them. They would see whatever new movie was playing and would be cooped up in tiny seats next to one another, watching the screen with wide eyes in the dimly lit space. You see, movies were a way for families to come together and see something new, cool, and at times, innovative. My grandpa did not have the technology and ability to watch films in theatres when he was a kid, so he made it his personal mission to take his children to see them in person. 

My grandpa, my father, and his siblings lived in India, and because of this, the theatres operate in a different way than in the United States. Films that were played in India had intermissions, just like how they do in modern Broadway plays, productions, and musicals. When this would happen, my grandpa would be the first one out of the theatre, cash in hand, ready to pick up the first, fresh batch of popcorn and concessions the theatre had to offer. It was at that moment my father and his siblings would reconvene with my grandpa and grandma in the lobby, munching on snacks and discussing a bit about the film they were watching, their eyes still glowing with excitement from the imagery displayed on the screen. 

Flash forward thirty (30+) years later, and my father is in his mid-40s, taking my sister, mother, and I to the theatres for movie nights. We always bought food and drinks before the movie started, as there were no intermissions during the films in the United States, and there still aren’t. This left little room for us to bond about the film halfway through and had forced us to determine if the middle of the movie had past or not. Regardless, after the film had finished, I would be racing to the car, bursting with thoughts on the film, ready to tell my father everything I thought about the film. He did not care as much about my opinion, which is something I did not realize until much later in my life and made me very sad. However, I then discovered that he did the same with my grandpa, and my father felt sad when my grandpa did not pay attention to him. 

I NEVER want that to happen to you, love. I want you to have fun with your family, to watch every movie that you want to see, to eat all the popcorn, tell your parents all your theories on who the villain was, and why grandma needs her tomato basil soup!!

In all seriousness, I know I do not know you, and you do not know me, but I need you to know that I love you. You ARE the chosen one, though. The first of many movie clichés that will riddle your existence and provide you the ability to understand complex subject matter around you in the form of moving pictures. You may not be a boy, but you are my Harry Potter, my Luke Skywalker, and my best friend. The fact that you are here, and reading this letter, is good enough for me. Go out there and do some good, kid. It’s your destiny.

Okay, no more clichés. Scout’s honor. 

Thank you, my love. 

Dear William-

On August 17th, 2006 at 5:01pm, you came into this world. I had a perfectly normal term pregnancy with you just as I had with your brother and sister; no problems at all in fact I loved being pregnant! 

This pregnancy with you was considered high risk because I would be 35 when you were born. You were induced due to my pattern of big babies but you were born a healthy 7 lbs. 3 oz. There was a perfect knot in the umbilical cord but that didn’t seem to cause the doctor any concern. You began nursing right away and in fact nursed for about a year. You did start spitting up everything you ate which we just chalked up to reflux; no big deal right? Wrong.

At about 2 months of age, I noticed that you weren’t t able to hold your head up at all. I expressed my concerns to our doctor and he thought you were probably just slow to develop but recommended an MRI just to be sure. 

So at 4 months of age, you were sedated for an MRI! Dad and I were heartbroken that our tiny baby boy had to go through this but we knew we needed to see what was going on. At our follow up appointment with the neurologist, nothing was found and the doctor specifically said, “I don’t think this is progressive.” He recommended starting physical therapy which we did. After months of therapy, there was no improvement. 

At around 6 months of age we noticed some facial movements but literally thought it was constipation. In fact I remember sending Dad to Walmart late at night to get something to help you poop. Who would’ve guessed these facial movements were actually seizures?! We still didn’t have any answers at this point. 

When you were 9 months old, our family moved from Virginia to South Carolina. This move happened at a crucial point in your care. We needed to know what was going on. We saw a developmental pediatrician who did a complete work up on you and got established with a wonderful neurologist. 

The neurologist suspected it might be mitochondrial disease which we had never heard of. He referred us to a mitochondrial disease specialist in Atlanta who did a muscle biopsy on you when you were a year old. 

This is when you should’ve been walking and saying a few words and grabbing things which you were not doing. You weren’t even holding your head up! After 3 grueling months, we got the diagnosis of mitochondrial disease. I remember receiving the letter in the mail the exact day we left to go on our first trip to Disney. I remember crying on our drive. At least we knew what we were dealing with but it certainly didn’t make the pain any less. 

At 18 months, you had your second surgery; a Nissen Fundoplication where part of the stomach is wrapped around the esophagus to prevent food from coming back up. You also has a gastrostomy-tube (g-tube) placed. This surgery was done to help with your severe reflux and the g-tube was for supplemental feedings to help you gain weight. The g-tube was not going to be your only means of nutrition. Well, you decided otherwise; you completely stopped taking a bottle and eating solid foods. This was the beginning of being strictly tube fed. 

Over the next few years, you had a repeat Nissen surgery because the first one had pulled loose due to severe gagging. You also had hip surgery on both hips; hip surgery recovery is brutal! You had numerous hospital stays, many tests done and lots and lots of medication. You were always such a sweet patient. 

We did get to a point after all these surgeries that things leveled out and you were doing well for about 2 years. 

You were a true inspiration and had the best attitude despite what you were going through. You hardly cried and you made lots of happy sounds. Your brother and sister loved holding you and reading to you and pushing you in your wheelchair. Sometimes, they even argued over who got to push you. 

Your grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends loved you so much. You had wonderful nurses caring for you and many doctors who had your best interest at heart.

In the fall of 2013, you were in and out of the hospital about 4 times due to respiratory issues, g-tube infections and urinary tract infections. In late February 2014, you took your last ride to the hospital in an ambulance. That was scary! That was by far the worst we had seen you and we were preparing to say good bye to you. That was awful. You  pulled through this though. Before we were discharged to come home, we met with the hospice coordinators to get you put on home hospice. We were tired of going to the hospital. It was a disruption to our family in so many ways. 

You were on home hospice for the last year of your life. We didn’t go to the hospital. We didn’t go to any doctor appointments. Hospice was a blessing to our family. You stayed fairly stable for that last year. The hospice team was nothing short of amazing.

In January of 2015, Dad started a new job in Georgia. The plan was to join him once your brother and sister finished the school year. We had good connections for doctors for you in Georgia and I had filled out all the paperwork to get you on Medicaid. We looked at houses that would accommodate you. You were going with us. 

It didn’t cross our minds that you weren’t. In mid-February, your nurses and I noticed that you were sleeping much more than normal. We weren’t really concerned though because you tended to sleep more in the cooler months. I called you my hibernating bear. You were literally sleeping 23 hours a day! You then started having some problems with your bodily functions. You weren’t peeing as you should; you were on a liquid diet so this shouldn’t have been a problem. You definitely weren’t pooping without the help of suppositories. 

At this point, the hospice doctor put you on Lasix which is a diuretic and would (hopefully) make you “pee like a race horse.”  Guess what? It didn’t work. You continued to not pee and started retaining fluids. We cut back on your formula intake to give your body a rest. It was pretty evident that your kidneys were shutting down and your feeds were causing more harm than good. We had to make a really hard decision.

On Friday, March 6, you had his last feeding. Like I said, feeding you was too hard on your little body. We knew this was the beginning of the end. Family and friends came to say their goodbyes over the weekend and offer us love and support. Our worst nightmare was coming true. 

On March 9 at 7:00am, you passed away peacefully surrounded by your family. 

William, you were and are a blessing and you taught us so much. Your short life of 8 years was a meaningful and fulfilling one. 

YOU WERE LOVED AND YOU LOVED WELL. 

Love-