Dear Arlington County Police Department, Friends, and Family,

I would like to start this message off with a quick story. When I was in sixth grade, my math teacher asked the class to plan their dream vacation. We were given sheets of paper that included hypothetical meals and activities that we were allowed to choose ourselves. The point of the assignment was to make sure we could allocate money and certain amounts of it in a proper manner. When I was asked to discuss my plan with the class, I clearly remember stating that more than half of my meals were planned to be peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Every kid looked at me as if I had lost my mind- or questioned my possible obsession with peanut butter. What I could not explain to them- something that I find terribly hard to explain to anyone at times- is the concept of what truly matters.

When I got that assignment, I remember my mother having just gone through a leg surgery, pneumonia, and, not knowing then, but the first of her many infections. Perhaps it was the Christmas holidays we spent in a hospital room instead of our own living room at home. When I explained my perfect vacation (still being in awe that there could be such a thing to ponder with this situation at hand) I explained that I wanted to save money on food so I could do all the fun activities with my family.

I don't remember the exact choices on that sheet in sixth grade, but I do remember the ones that I have had to make in real life.

Time with family will truly, always be time well spent. I have been blessed to have time with family. The interesting notion is that I have always been curious how much- how much longer will I be granted? There is no gift of giving when you want to give all. You would give anything to have one more healthy day, minute, second- give anything to have that gift given to someone you love.

Multiple holidays spent in the hospital did not grant me this perspective. Immense heartbreak and sadness did. You all are friends of my parents, and are certainly a friend of mine. I assume you saw my father, a Detective and Arlington County Police Officer, come into work with a long face, but still be able to somehow (I couldn't tell ya how either) manage to put a smile on it.

I assume you knew my mother, as she is now a retired Prosecutor of The Commonwealth Attorney's Office. I was too young to see her getting sick, but you all did. You have known someone that I have never had the pleasure of meeting.

My family is a family. We have our happy days, and we have ones that I do not have a word for. My mother has an auto-immune disease, and this keeps her from being able to live. The mind that my mother retains and relays is a kaleidoscope of beauty and awe. Sickness can pinch at her brain, but it has not consumed it.

My mother's physical wellness could be written about through multiple pages, tears, and include some inspirational stories. I hope you have heard some of them, but I hope you know you helped with one of the best stories I'll ever be able to tell.

Normal: Our house has many stairs.

Not Normal: My mother is sick, and her body will sometimes fail to let her travel throughout the house, throughout the city, throughout the world. It all comes back to the stairs.

You all: You helped to create a balanced level between the ups and the downs, and I mean this very literally. I was informed that there had been donations being made for the action of installing a chairlift into my home for my mother this past summer. I cried the first time my father told me, I cried when it was being installed, and I cried seeing my mother cry when she took it on it's first spin.

For once- for an absolute once in my life: I was crying tears of joy relating to my mother's illness. You all gave her the ability to get around- but you gave us all, as a family, so, very much more. You gave us happiness and a type of love having no amount we could ever possibly repay.

Life is hard. It seems that we are constantly living, loving, and linking. You are all a new link. I will never say that you people are my friends. You are now my family.

You might not be there every time my mother gets to go downstairs and simply open the blinds of different rooms, but I hope you feel the sunlight that shines on her face.

You might not be there when my family has an outing to go to, and my father and I no longer need to help hold two hands that you have now warmed. I sincerely hope you feel the love that you have radiated into our lives.

My mother can now live her life in a manner that is so much more helpful. There were days when she could not go outside. I do not need to go into details about how sad some of these days were, because there will always be sad days.

You, my beautiful family, my beautiful friends and caregivers, my bright and bold coworkers, my insightful and thoughtful colleagues- you have helped to create so many more happy days than sad.

I speak on behalf of the little girl who sat on the stairs and had to listen to her mother cry when she took one step and fell down them. I speak on behalf of the father who has to put a sickness on his shoulders, but also live life and raise one. I speak on behalf of a woman who has her ups and downs, so many more than any of us could count, when I say that she knows they will be easier to handle, and she will never handle them alone.

You have helped changed my mother's life, my father's life, my own life. I thank you for showing me the power of love like any other- the love of family.

Love,

Mary Hanula

Father: Thomas Hanula

Mother: Sheila Norman