Since today is your birthday, I thought it would be nice to write a post about your life or the details I know about your life.

Today you would have turned 58 years old. You probably wouldn’t have wanted me telling the world how old you are. Dad would be saying something about how you would be beginning your 59th trip around the sun. Jackson would probably have made some beautiful piece of art for you. And I would do everything in my power to make today the best day for you. In my opinion, I’m quite good at celebrating other people’s birthday, so I would have started the day making sure you had the perfect breakfast and a great lunch packed because I know you wouldn’t have taken the day off of work. You’d work a full day of providing care to your patients, and I would spend the day getting everything together for a perfect evening and weekend.

Unfortunately, you aren’t here to celebrate your birthday with your family. Instead, you’re somewhere else, and your family is all spread apart on a day we should be celebrating the beautiful life of Cindy Powell-Rudolph. Hopefully, everyone is doing something to celebrate you today. I’m trying to celebrate by writing this post.

So let’s crack into your life or my recollection of your life.

You were born the third of four children in Lincoln, Nebraska. But you and your family didn’t stay in Nebraska. Instead, you moved to Wheat Ridge, Colorado, to a small ranch home just off of Youngfield Street. You swam for Aviation Country Club and Applewood Athletic Club. You went to Kullerstrand Elementary School, then the Manning School and then Wheat Ridge High School.

Wheat Ridge is where you met dad. You met him in the marching band where you both played clarinet, although I always thought you played bass clarinet or something like that. You were part of a group that TP’d houses for fun, which is pretty badass, in my opinion. You and dad dated for most of your high school experience, but you broke up with him when he went off to college because you didn’t want to be hurt by the distance. Dad went off to UNLV while you finished your last year in high school, and at some point, you two got back together. You would write dad letters backward, and he would sit in the bathroom sink to read them in the mirror.

When you finished high school, you went off to the University of Puget Sound. I like to think that you went away for college for the same reason I did: to get some space and to grow up more. Grandpa Charlie shipped you your Voltzwagon Beetle. You met some of your best friends in the world at UPS. You met Emily and Tina Marie, and you even lived together for a time. With your friends at UPS, you began to find yourself through feminist & other activist clubs, knitting, and more.

Dad dropped out of UNLV to come to be with you in Tacoma. I’m not entirely sure what year it was that this happened. At some point dad purposed to you in a letter, I think we found the letter when we were moving out of the Taft House. According to dad, you had a long engagement, two years (I guess that is a long engagement even in modern standards). You and dad got married in June 1983. The summer before your last year of college. (I can not begin to imagine what the final year of college would have been like for me if I was married, but we had different college experiences.) You two got married here in Colorado at Holy Cross Lutheran Church, but you lived in Tacoma to finish school, and dad was with you. You weren’t even 21 when you got married.

According to Dad, you were struggling to find work in Washington, so you two decided it was in your best interest to move back to Colorado, where you had a family to support you. You lived with Grandma and Grandpa Rudolph for a while, but you found a job doing Physical Therapy. Being a Physical Therapist was your dream.

This is the part of your history I don’t know as well. Dad loves retelling stories from high school and college. But I don’t know much about the times after college and before you had children. I’m sure dad will tell me more when he reads this.

You were married for 11 years before you had Jackson. You didn’t always want kids, which trust me being 23 I understand that feeling. But at some point that changed and you decide to start trying to have children. You and Dad tried for a long time to get pregnant before you got pregnant with Jackson. From what I’ve heard, it wasn’t a comfortable pregnancy. Neither of your pregnancies sound like they were. Two years after having Jack, you had me.

This next part of your life is natural for me to remember because it was the first 17 years of mine. You worked full time as a physical therapist while dad worked from home. You switched jobs when I was young, and you started working for the Visiting Nurse Association. You were the best mom, teaching us to love to read, never missing any swim meets, or any other sporting events we did for a brief amount of time. You fought tooth and nail to make sure we got everything we needed from our education, especially Jackson. No matter what, you always let us know you were proud of our accomplishments.

We traveled together. We went all over the United States as a family, Mexico, Canada, and even Europe for a month. We went to Disneyworld to celebrate Jackson graduating High School and your’s and dad’s 30th wedding anniversary.

Your life came to an end the same year we went to Disneyworld. In December of 2013, you got sick, but not the sick people usually talk about before someone dies. You simply had a head cold or the flu or something. Well, it wasn’t a head cold or the flu. You were pretty sick to miss going out to dinner for my 17th birthday. When Dad and I got home from dinner, I came into your room to give you some Sierra Mist, and Shelia, the family dog, was lying right up against you. You said, “She thinks I’m dying or something.” The next morning you and Dad were awake as I was trying to get ready for swim team practice, which was odd considering it was about 4:30 in the morning. I didn’t think much of it because you hadn’t been feeling well, and Dad was taking your temperature. I went to swim and then to school after saying “I love you. Bye.” I had no idea those were the last words I would say to you while you were conscious. It turns out you were borderline hypothermic and went to the emergency room shortly after I left. By the next day, you were gone.

It was a freak illness. It was a considerably mutated case of strep that had turned into necrotizing fasciitis. You were just 51. It’s hard to think that it’s been six and a half years since that horrible series of events.

But today, I will try to push those sad and ugly memories out of my head and remember all the great things about you. I will read some and think of you. I will look back at pictures of the trips we traveled. And I will celebrate every part of myself I got from you.

I love you, Mama! I miss you every day.

Family & friends please know that this blog is not the most accurate depiction of my mother’s full life. But it is what I need to say to her today.

It’s been awhile since I last wrote/talked to you. I could claim that it was because I was busy, that I’ve lost track of time. But I have thought about it every Friday since I last wrote. I don’t really have a good reason for not writing/talking but I’m doing so now so that should mean something, right?

I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. With you having been a health care professional I keep finding myself wondering what your life would be like if you were alive and working right now. I keep wondering what kind of things you would be talking to me about if you were here to watch the news and read all the articles online. I wonder if you would be as terrified as I have been the past few days. But I’ll truly never have any of the answers to these questions because we’ve never lived through anything like this before.

But then I think to myself, you would probably talk about the history of the Spanish Flu. We would probably listen to This Podcast Will Kill You together, or at least talk to each other about all the latest episodes. We would discuss how everything is rapidly changing right now but it’s promising that they’re already doing trials for some vaccines.

It’s an incredibly difficult time to be without you. I don’t know who to talk to about my fear because everyone is afraid but no one seems to want to talk about it. So this platform, where I talk to my dead mom through blog posts seems like the best place. I know we would be talking daily if you were here to talk to. I know you would be incredibly well read about this stuff because that what you used to do about everything, read stuff. I’m trying to stay well read but it’s hard because there is so much to read and not all of it true.

As I mentioned I’ve been struggling. I’ve been crying a lot, sorry Jack. But today I went over to Dad’s and I burst into tears because he wouldn’t hug me, he ended up giving me a hug but the stress is still here. But this story brings me to the second half of this title. While I was over at Dad’s he gave me your red recipe binder!

We, your children and Craig, have been looking for this binder since we moved out of the Taft house. I know I packed it when we were cleaning out our kitchen but I couldn’t remember which box it got put in or where the box ended up. Basically finding your red binder brought such a light into this dark place I’ve been living in the past few days.

I looked through it briefly and it brought back so many happy memories I have with you. I found just a list of ingredients but dad let me know that it was a recipe for guacamole, the avocados were assumed.

I guess the lesson I learned from today is that even in the darkest of moments there are glimmers of light. Thank you for leaving your red binder! I can’t wait to make more memories with these recipes.

We never had the chance to talk about love or marriage. At least not in the capacity that a young woman of 23 years wants to talk about that kind of stuff. We talked about crushes. You respected my choices and you were always so kind to those I brought home.

But I never got the chance to ask you how you knew marrying my father was the right decision for you. I never got to ask you when you knew you were going to spend the rest of your life with him. After all you did spend the rest of your life with my father.

As morbid as it is, death did you part. It feels so rare in our modern age to see people spend the majority of their adult lives, and for you it was the majority of your life, with one person. The divorce rate is above 40% in this country. I had and still have many friends who have divorced parents that it felt so rare to grow up with parents who were happily married.

It’s somewhat daunting to be the child of high school sweethearts. Maybe it was only daunting to me, but I put this weird pressure to have a high school sweetheart on myself. Turns out putting that kind of pressure on yourself isn’t very beneficial to your mentality. Especially when you realize halfway through your first semester of college that you’re not dating anyone from high school. I was a mess and I was floundering to find someone to hold on to. Turns out this kind of over commitment in a casual relationship isn’t super great either.

But at some point I figured it out, well I figured something out, that I can’t base my life off of anyone else’s. I stopped pushing myself into unhealthy relationships and I sat back for a minute watching life go by. That’s about the time that Jack came back into my life.

And that’s what is going on. I’m incredibly happy and very comfortable. But I can’t talk to you about it. Well I can in this form but the problem is all the questions. I just have so many questions and they’ll remain answer less.

So how did you and dad make it work? Of course I can ask dad, and I’m sure I have at so point, but I’m sure you wouldn’t give me an identical answer. Plus there something about these kind of conversations between a mother and a daughter that can’t be the same conversation with any other person.

I wish I could tell you everything. All the great ways Jack makes me smile and laugh. Or the little things that bug me but don’t bug me enough to not see the way the light sparkle in his eyes. And once again I guess I can but I won’t get the comments I would expect from a conversation with you in person.

But that’s the point of all this, to at least put it out there. And maybe, some way or another the universe will send me your answers and your comments. But for now all this is is half a conversation about wanting to know more about what a mother knows about romantic love.