Born Brenda Joleen Long on the 25th of August 1951 in American Fork, Utah, United States, my Mom was the fifth of eight children born to my grandparents — RaNee and Wesley Long. Raised on a farm in Orem, Utah, my Mom's childhood was one of adventure. There's a story she used to always like to share that always made us laugh. She and her older brother, Valene, always had to do the dishes after dinner. My Grandma was an incredible cook and she knew how to whip up some delectable meals for a whole lot of people. Naturally, however, this led to a whole lot of dishes needing to be cleaned, too.

Overwhelmed by the amount of dishes needing to be washed day-in-and-day-out, my Mom and uncle ultimately decided that there wouldn't need to be so many dishes washed then subsequently put away if they just buried the dirty ones in the backyard and never spoke of them again. They started out with just a few, here and there, mostly pots and pans. Of course, my Grandma would quickly realize that she was missing pots and pans that she used all the time and soon became hip to what was going on while the children were alone.

In an elaborate set-up, on Christmas Day, my grandparents led my Mom and my uncle Valene to the basement for their big and memorable Christmas gift surprise — lo and behold, it was the pots, pans, and various dishes they had buried awaiting them to finally clean and put them away! As you can probably imagine, this was a horrid sight for a child to see on Christmas Day and my Mom and uncle were not enthused about the day's work that lay ahead. However, they did as they were told and eventually were gifted their real Christmas presents — never having forgotten the valuable, if not horrifying, lesson they were given as children on that Christmas morning.

My uncle Valene was my Mom's best friend growing up, she loved and admired him so. She would tell me of how she enjoyed listening to the music he would create, how she would be in awe and feel like she was standing before a celebrity in the making. When he passed away, at the age of 44, from brain cancer on September 13th, 1993, my Mom was devastated. Earlier in the year, on August 3rd, 1993 she had lost her father, my Grandpa, Wesley Melvin Long. These losses tore my Mom apart, rocked her to the core. For a long time, she would just go to the cemetery and weep at the graves of her father and brother. My Grandma, I can only imagine, was probably just as torn up, but knew she had to manage and be the strength her other children would need during this period of great loss and grief.

When my Mom was in her early teens, she, too, was briefly declared legally dead. She had been hanging out with friends, driving around the old small mining town of Eureka, Utah; located in Juab County.

While driving on the mountains edge, around some mines, my Mom was inside the car with her girl friend and two other guys, the driver, one of the guys, decided to drive as fast as possible, despite the protests of my Mom and her friend. Soon, the car careened off of the mountain and an awful rollover accident occurred. My Mom's nose was shoved deep into her skull, but she was still miraculously alive when paramedics arrived. However, as they began work on her inside the hospital, she soon passed away on the operating table.

My Mom recalled hovering over her body, seeing how badly hurt and damaged it was and feeling alarmed, but soon she saw a white light and was greeted by loved ones who had passed on before her. Of this heavenly place she recalled, she says she felt nothing but unconditional love. She sensed God's presence, but didn't sense any religion. If there was a religion, she would later state many a time, it was just of love. Pure, unconditional love. Love was all there was, all there ever need be. She felt at peace, despite having her young life taken so soon. She felt safe. In many ways, she didn't want to leave. There were many things that happened, some things she could remember, others she struggled her whole life to recall — however, the one thing that mattered the most was that she was soon given the impression that her time hadn't yet come and that she needed to go back.

When she awoke, she had been legally declared dead for over five minutes! The doctors who had worked on her were, understandably, surprised and elated. The road to recovery, however, would make my Mom sometimes wish for death, wish that it had succeeded in taking her to that incredible place she hadn't really wanted to leave.

After many facial reconstruction surgeries to fix her nasal cavity, my Mom would deal with intermittent blindness and other complexities associated with a recovery of the magnitude she had to go through. She, however, was a fighter. She was given a 2nd chance at life and even though there were days she wished she hadn't been granted that chance, she was absolutely determined to make the best of it.

Growing up, we were raised in a Mormon household, although we were what many Mormons around us would refer to as "Jack Mormons." We didn't always follow all the rules, and we certainly didn't always go to church, even though my Dad would always guilt trip us when we didn't go. Even still, that religion really didn't shape my faith the way my Mom's experience of God had. My Mom taught me of a God who was nothing but Love. A God who wouldn't forsake or abandon us, who didn't think us worthless, vile, sinful creations. She painted me a picture of a God who loved with abandon. A God who welcomed anyone and everyone, regardless of age, gender, race, ethnicity, sexual orientation, etc. My Mom's views on God, in many ways, saved me from abandoning my faith altogether — which is, perhaps, something worth exploring in a different blog entry.

Of the most importance to my Mom was family. Family was above all else, as far as she was concerned. Her children, most especially, were her everything. I was the last born, the sixth. Growing up, I didn't really get to see my Mom and Dad happily together. By the time I started being able to build memories of my own, my Dad was already pretty distant and didn't really play all that active a role in my life. So, when they divorced, I found myself unbothered, unlike my other siblings who could recall days gone by of happier times shared between our parents.

Even though she was the one who filed for divorce, my Mom was devastated. My father was her everything. They had married when she was still a teenager, she had dealt with all kinds of ups and downs with him. She had stood by his side, an eager wife and mother, only wanting the best for her husband and kids. However, after discovering an affair my father was carrying on with some woman back east, my Mom couldn't take the chance of being abandoned, as was appearing to be the case judging by the many emails she had discovered, so she opted to file for the dissolution of their 30-plus year marriage.

Unfortunately, my Mom would soon meet another man named David; this one, however, would turn out to be an abusive, cruel, and awful human being who would make it his goal to isolate her and make her life a living hell. The years of abuse that my Mom endured, that my siblings and I endured, was nothing short of traumatizing. After many, many years of walking on eggshells, of yelling/screaming/shouting/swearing, of punching holes in walls, of even tossing an angel statue into the wall (my Mom loved collecting angel things), and yes, even acts of physical abuse, my Mom eventually found the courage to leave.

As a child growing up in an abusive household, it's sometimes difficult to understand why your own mother won't leave someone who only makes life difficult, someone who would literally make her work hours on end while he stayed home and did absolutely nothing. Then, after having worked all those hours, having to give him the money to spend as he chose; which usually meant important bills, mortgages, rents, etc. were never being paid on time. Little Drew couldn't understand why his Mom would let this awful, despicable human being control their lives in such a way. Little Drew, once standing as the final child still living at home, would dream of running away with his Mom, taking her far, far away where this sociopath would never be able to find them ever again.

Looking back now, however, I can see why my Mom was unable to leave for so long. There was so much trauma from her own past, things she never delved into and tried to heal, things she allowed to stay buried in her heart. She was trying the best she could with what she had — she only ever wanted one thing out of life and that was to make sure her children were happy and well-loved. Being with David, or Dave as I called him, had hindered the love she was able to give, had held her back from being able to love the way she was built to love. His control seeked to isolate her, to eventually rid her of even me, so that he could bend her to his own personal whims, wants, and needs. It was something, after having years apart from him, that my Mom would say was an eye-opener for her. She could see the level of control he had wielded and how his ultimate goal was for her to be truly isolated from everyone she loved and held dear.

It's hard not to feel angry when I look back at that period of time. However, I'm not angry at my Mom. No, not in the slightest. She, too, was a victim. She hadn't the tools to address the issue, she couldn't see the way to get out of the situation without leaving her family in jeopardy — countless were the threats and even attempts Dave had made against us. I'm angry because my Mom was such a phenomenal, loving, caring, giving, and beautiful person and I hate that she gave up the best years of her life on loving someone who truly made her life, and the lives of everyone she loved, a living hell. She deserved so much better than that, she deserved the love of a good man, a man who would see the beauty in her and honor and cherish her for the treasure she was and always would be.

In the oncoming years, my Mom would dip her toe into the dating field from time to time, but, ultimately, she eventually decided that she was done and used her Mom, my Grandma Long, as a kind of example. After my Grandpa's passing, my Grandma never remarried again, nor did she really date anybody else. She would state that the time had come and gone and now she was going to remain single for the rest of her life and simply focus on her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, etc.

My Mom would always remember my Dad, David, as one of the great loves of her life. How could she not after having spent 30-plus years together? There were happy moments sprinkled in between the moments of immense grief, sadness, and struggle. However, a question always lingered in my Mom's mind — what if I'd ended up with my childhood sweetheart? His name was Denny. She would tell me stories of the times they would share together, how his mother, who lived in Eureka, would practically treat her like a daughter and wanted them to end up together. Like many things in life, the story would take a sad turn when he ended up marrying someone else after a pregnancy scare, leaving my Mom lost and devastated as she mourned the what-if and the could've-beens.

Not too long before my Mom passed away, I ended up finding Denny after doing an extensive and thorough search online. Sure enough, he still had links to the shrinking town of Eureka. Like a child, I happily encouraged my Mom to take the journey with me to go and find him — to reunite, to catch up, and fondly recall old memories. I knew the idea appealed to her, that it drew upon her hopeless romanticism that she had passed on to me, in which my Grandma had passed on to her.

However, when my Mom learned that Denny was still married to the woman that he had left her for she did the thing that only a good person like herself would do — "I can't try and come between them, that wouldn't be right. They're happily married. I don't have any right to try and take a walk down memory lane at someone else's expense." I, of course, tried to spin the story — what if he wasn't all that happily married? What if seeing you would bring him immense joy and happiness? No matter, however. Happy or not, my Mom would not do something that could potentially bring pain onto somebody else. She had lived a life full of pain, full of sorrow, full of regret. She wouldn't allow herself to play a negative part in someone else's life, to be the cause of someone else's sorrows and losses. No, my Mom wanted to put only good into the Earth. That, however, didn't mean she had no desire to see Denny — something tells me if he'd been single, widowed even, she probably would've agreed to make the trek to see him again. However, that's not the way the story played out and yet my Mom was still graceful, compassionate, and considerate of others.

My Mom was deserving of a really beautiful love story — and, sadly, I feel like she was deprived of that while on Earth. My Mom, she loved with everything that was inside of her. Yet she was never really given even half of that love back, at least not romantically speaking. Even still, she had no regrets. In many ways, she inspired me to realize that life is not about regrets, it's about experiences. Every experience — be it good or bad — shapes and molds us into the people we become. She also always reminded me that people are a lot like the seasons — many come and go, like the changing seasons, but leave an indelible mark behind, whether the role they played was big or small. Some, however, stick around; those cherished ones you must hold dear, they are like the soulmates, which aren't just romantic in nature, that we were destined to meet and share our lives with. The love, the awe, the wonder with which my Mom lived her life never ceased to amaze me. No matter the bad cards she was dealt, and she was dealt many a bad card, she never got discouraged. She never lost her faith. She knew God was real. She knew God loved and cared, and that was the balm that carried her through some of the darkest days of her life.

As the years drew on, my Mom would end up losing the lower portion of her lungs after suffering a severe allergic reaction to the statin blood pressure medication she was taking — the doctor hadn't been monitoring her and my Mom hadn't known of the allergy until then. Unfortunately, by the time this was all traced together, the damage was already done and my Mom was forced to spend the remainder of her life on oxygen.

I'm sure you can imagine how tough it would be to have your only way of being able to continue living be guaranteed by oxygen being pumped into your nasal cavity 24/7. There would be days her poor nasal cavity would be so sore and dried out that her skin would crack and sores would develop. There were days when the power would go out and she would panic — would she have enough oxygen in the tanks we were given to hold her over until the power was restored? It was a constant fear, a constant stressor. Yet my Mom did her best to make the best of an awful situation. She would have moments where she would break down crying, but then she'd get back up and try to deal with yet another bad hand she was dealt. All the while, mind you, she never lost her faith. Something that truly amazes me. So easy it could be to say, "God, why are You doing this to me?! I'm done. I'm fed up!" I know I've shouted that many a time myself. My Mom, however, always trusted and believed; she always understood that even if the here and now wasn't particularly great, there was always life after death and the promise of a brighter tomorrow.

On August 8th, 2021 my Mom passed away at 69 years old. I was 30, about to turn 31 that September. My Mom, up to that point, had been my whole entire world. I couldn't envision a future without her in it. She was more than just my mother, she was my best friend. We shared so many common interests that we practically watched all the same TV shows/movies and listened to the same music. Ours was a connection deeper than just mother/son, it was a best friend type of thing too.

My sister, Varonica, and I spent the last night my Mom had on Earth with her in the claustrophobic hospital room of the University of Utah Hospital. In the middle of the night, the lights surged, which was really odd, and then Mom had moments of staring off into the corner, as if she was seeing someone or something.

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are gray…"

When my Mom passed I was filled with so many vast and varied emotions. The most prevalent, obviously, was grief, sorrow, anger, and regret. Underlying, however, was a sense of relief, a sense of gratitude that she no longer had to suffer anymore. She was finally free. She was finally soaring, happily in that ethereal place she saw when she died as a child.

"Moon river, wider than a mile

I'm crossing you in style someday

Oh, dream maker, you heartbreaker

Wherever you're going, I'm going your way…"

When my Mom was sick in the hospital, my life was in shambles. My relationship was struggling as my then-boyfriend had slipped back into his addiction, my Mom knew what was going on and was worried and concerned for both me and my now ex. However, she knew how much I loved him, and she had grown to love and view him as a son too. She wanted me to find my happily-ever-after, something she wasn't ever able to truly do for herself. I so badly wanted my ex to be that one for me, so much so that we even eventually got married, then subsequently divorced not too long into it.

Since losing my Mom and my husband, I began to deal with really bad anxiety and depression. Sometimes it gets to points where I can hardly manage to get going. However, I'm reminded of what my Mom would always say — love is never a mistake. Everything that happens simply shapes and molds us into who we become. Even though at times it feels like we've no control, that we're simply being battered around like some modern-day Job's, we begin to realize that there is beauty in the pain, there is something of value when we discover that we cannot know happiness without also having tasted sadness, we cannot know light without having experienced darkness. Even if the here and now is not great, not what you had hoped it would be, there's still hope — you're still breathing, which means there's still a chance of things getting better! I can almost hear my Mom saying that to me right here, right now.

My Mom was a lot like her own, my Grandma. Both emulated a pure love, a pure care, a pure drive to be good and to do good. Yes, they were human, which means yes, they had their faults. But, even in their faults, a beauty still emanated and remained. These two women shaped my faith, gave me strength to keep on believing even when it felt I couldn't. Both, in my opinion, deserved better love stories than they ever got. Which is a shame since I know that this hopeless romanticness is an almost genetic like gift given from Grandma, to mother, to son — they should've had the opportunity to know a love story that they probably only ever dreamed about.

Selfish parts of me worry — will I ever find my own sweet love story? Or will I end up just like them? I feel awful thinking such things. I love my Mom. I love my Grandma. I just don't want to walk down the roads they've walked down; I want to mark my own path, I want to share my life with someone deserving of being able to be a part of it — in short, I don't want to sell myself short like my Mom and Grandma did to themselves countless times. They were worth more than the most priceless diamond or gem, and yet they let themselves be treated poorly by men who weren't deserving of them. That's not to shame my grandfather or my father, although Dave can go fuck himself. Rather, this is only to address a point — people like my Mom and Grandma tend to be the caregivers, the ones who give until they have nothing left to give, and then they'll still, somehow, manage to give some more, up until they eventually are left standing alone, picking up the broken pieces of dreams shattered after years and years of nothing but disappointments.

My Mom and Grandma deserved so much better — and yet I guarantee, if either were still hear to answer to this, that they'd both still say they led good lives and were happy with how things turned out. Things may not have been all happily-ever-after and the like, yet they still made do with the life that they fell into. Oh, what if — ?! What if my Grandma had found another charming man to fall in love with? What if my Mom had left my Dad and found her knight in shining armor?! What if — ?! But, sadly, that's all those questions will ever be — just simply what-ifs.

Life doesn't always go the way we planned. I'm getting this message thoroughly hammered into my head as I am now approaching 35 years of age this September. Four years without my Mom. Four years without my bestest friend. Not a day goes by that I don't think about her, or my Grandma, too, for the matter. They are my beacons of light, my reminders that hope is worth keeping — because, truly, I say, truly, better days are yet to come!

Her Journey's Just Begun

Don't think of her as gone away-

her journey's just begun,

life holds so many facets-

this earth is only one. . .

Just think of her as resting

from the sorrows and the tears

in a place of warmth and comfort

where there are no days and years.

Think how she must be wishing

that we could know today

how nothing but our sadness

can really pass away.

And think of her as living

in the hearts of those she touched. . .

for nothing loved is ever lost-

and she was loved so much.

• -Ellen Brenneman