You'll have to forgive me if this blog seems a little choppy and absent-minded. Hopefully, you'll understand and allow me a few minutes to try and put thoughts into words ...

My longtime friends and regular readers of my work here at OnMilwaukee.com know that I've spent most of my life, in some way, shape or form, involved in a German folk dance group and cultural organization.

I can't even count how many times over the years people have asked me why I do it.

To be honest, until today, I really didn't have a good answer. Sure, there was pride in my heritage; a nod of respect to my ancestors and what they went through to get to the United States.

But really ... I hadn't ever been able to put my finger on the main reason.

That changed Monday afternoon.

For the last few years, one of my fellow dancers -- though I had quit performing several years ago -- was diagnosed with cancer. Katie battled like hell ever since, undergoing round after round of chemo and doing everything in her power to prove modern medicine wrong.

Unfortunately, the battle looked like it was coming to an end.

I got the call from my mother around 12:30 p.m. and headed over to the house to pick her and my sister up for the trip to Froedtert. I don't know why, but I was sort of surprised when I saw how many dance group members were in the hallway, the waiting area and in Katie's room.

I always call Katie's mother my "aunt." She isn't really, but we are distantly related. My former dance teacher, I just figured "aunt" was an appropriate term because she wasn't just my dance teacher and she wasn't just a friend ... she was family.

There she was, sitting beside her daughter -- who is just 26 years old -- holding her hand. Her father was on the other side of the bed with her sister next to him. And the room was filled with loved ones, friends and family ... all there to support her, to guide her to her next stop.

Tears flowed. Noses sniffled. And every now and then, smiles and laughter filled the room.

I managed to keep my composure until she motioned over to me. It was my turn to sit down. I couldn't say goodbye. I couldn't tell her to fight. I couldn't tell her to let go. For the first time in my life, I told her, I was speechless.

But I looked around the room and thought about how absolutely beautiful it was to see all these people, gathered together to support their friend ... their sister.

I finally, through the biggest lump I've ever had in my throat, managed to speak. I told her that she taught me a valuable lesson. That, all these years, I thought I was just part of a dance group. But all this time, it was so much more.

We were family. In the truest sense of the world, we were family.

All of us -- myself, included -- have fought with each other of the years. We've fought, we've made up, we've celebrated, we've mourned, we've laughed and we've loved ... together.

Just like a family.

As I walked out, I thought about all the patients in the hospital facing similar situations. I wondered if they had the same outpouring of love and support. I wonder if they ever knew the joy of having that circle of love around them and I actually smiled a little bit.

Throughout the night, I watched members of groups in cities across the country post messages of support on Facebook. Everybody was praying for a miracle. Everybody was praying for Katie.

Somehow, I've been lucky. I'm 32 and have both parents, four grandparents and a great-grandmother who just turned 97, I've said farewell to high school classmates, college friends and friends' family members, but the closest death has ever come to me was in 2001, when my beloved friend Christina was murdered.

I've always wondered how I would deal with the grief and if I would be OK. But Katie made me realize that no matter what, family -- in all senses of the word -- will always be there when you need it.

It's a beautiful and incredibly comforting feeling.

** Update: Katie passed away Friday, just before 5 p.m. She spent her last days surrounded by family -- blood and extended. We should all be so lucky to spend our final time on this earth with the kind of love and support she did.