07/19/2026
July 16th, the Campanelli family, my family, and our Advocates for the Aging family lost one of the brightest lights to ever grace our lives. We lost our beloved Colette.
Twenty-six years ago, I met a woman who I thought would simply become a friend. Instead, she became family. Not by blood, but by love—the kind of love that quietly weaves itself into your life until you can't imagine your story without that person in it.
Colette watched Annaliese grow from a little girl into the remarkable woman she is today. She would offer motherly advice with a smile and a disclaimer: "Now, I only raised boys, but I think this advice should still work." She knew Vincent from the moment he was in my womb until just days before her passing, when he celebrated his 21st birthday. She loved both of my children as though they were her own grandchildren.
She was there for Friday night pizza nights, Sunday dinners, holidays, birthdays, celebrations, and the ordinary moments that somehow became extraordinary simply because Colette was there. She had a gift for making people laugh, even during life's hardest chapters.
When the love of her life, Louis, was living in memory care, she never let dementia steal their romance. She would tell him they were going out to dinner, wheel him into the dining room, and announce they had arrived at a fine restaurant where she had already ordered. At the end of the meal, she would let Louis proudly pay the bill—usually with the dollar she had secretly tucked into his pocket beforehand. She preserved his dignity while filling his heart with joy. That was Colette.
Halloween was her favorite holiday. She would proudly wear a bright red foam clown nose everywhere—work, the grocery store, anywhere—and never cared what anyone thought. She simply wanted people to smile.
Even in the hospital, her humor never disappeared. One day she looked at a nurse and asked, "Am I already in the morgue? It's so damn cold in here." When someone mentioned the priest was coming to visit, she replied, "He's really cute...but I'm just too damn old for him."
She loved telling stories about her sons, Roger, Ronnie and Louis Jr—the adventures they created, the discipline that followed, and the laughter that somehow came from every memory. But nothing lit up her face more than talking about Louis. Their love story was one for the ages.
After Louis passed, Colette found comfort in CJ's hugs. She called them her "Louie hugs" because Louis had been a big, handsome man with a warm embrace, a hairy chest, and always smelled wonderful. Every time she saw CJ, right up until the very end, she'd beam and say, "Give me a Louie hug." While she worked at Advocates for the Aging, they shared an office, and not a single workday went by without that cherished hug.
The memories are endless.
For her 75th birthday, our AFTA family and my family surprised her with a celebration filled with heartfelt gifts...and of course, a few gag gifts. One particularly inappropriate gift had her laughing so hard she joked she had no one to use it with. Without missing a beat, a gentleman from another table overheard the laughter, wandered over with a clever comment, and before long they shared a kiss. Only Colette could create a story like that.
She was famous for making homemade Limoncello, lovingly gifting bottles to those she cared about. When CJ and I traveled through Italy, we found Limoncello packaged in a hilariously inappropriate bottle. Knowing Colette's sense of humor—and remembering her birthday—we couldn't resist bringing it home. She laughed until tears rolled down her face and would mention that gift every now and then with that mischievous grin only she possessed.
There were girls' trips to Cassadaga filled with Italian food, fortunes, laughter, and unforgettable memories. There were theater outings, including Menopause the Musical. Colette laughed and said, "I haven't been in menopause for decades, but what the hell...I'll revisit it with you ladies."
As her health began to decline, even those difficult days became filled with moments that reflected who she truly was.
When she was discharged to rehabilitation at Life Care Center of Melbourne—a place where many of us had once worked alongside her—she was delighted to discover so many familiar faces still there. "It's like old home week," she joked, "except now I have a lot less authority."
While she was there, Vincent visited and wheeled her throughout the building while she handled some business. When they returned, she laughed and said, "That's the fastest I've gone since I've been here!" Vincent immediately apologized, worried he'd pushed her too fast. She looked at him and smiled, "Yes! I loved it! Everyone else pushes me like I'm an old lady."
During that visit, she quietly told him she had saved one final bottle of her homemade Limoncello for his 21st birthday. "This is my last batch," she matter-of-factly told him.
When the time came, Colette made one final decision with the same strength and clarity that defined her entire life. She wanted to go home. No more hospitals. No more treatments. As she put it so perfectly, "No more bu****it."
It was an honor to help make that wish come true.
A few days after she returned home with hospice, CJ, Vincent, and I visited her. As soon as we walked in, she thanked me for helping bring her home. Then she asked CJ for one more "Louie hug."
Finally, she looked at CJ and me and announced, "GET OUT. I WANNA GIVE VINCENT A GRANDMA TALK."
So...we left.
The conversation they shared will forever belong to them.
When we were invited back into the room, Colette reached for that last bottle of Limoncello. She poured two glasses—one for herself and one for Vincent. Together, they toasted his 21st birthday.
What a priceless gift.
In her final days, she was surrounded by the people who loved her most. Her sons, Ronnie and Roger, their loving wives, and her sister Rachel cared for her with incredible devotion, allowing her to spend her final chapter exactly where she wanted to be—at home, wrapped in love.
Colette leaves behind far more than memories. She leaves behind lessons.
She taught us that laughter belongs even in sorrow. That dignity matters. That love never ends. That family is chosen as often as it is born. That a hug can heal. That life is meant to be lived fully, honestly, and with a little mischief.
She was wise. She was fearless. She was hilariously inappropriate. She was compassionate. She was direct. She was unforgettable.
There are people who pass through your life...
And then there are people who become part of your heart forever.
Colette was one of those rare souls.
Thank you for every laugh, every story, every "Louie hug," every bottle of Limoncello, every word of wisdom, and every moment you shared with us.
Until we meet again...save us a seat at your table, make sure the restaurant has good Italian food, and don't forget to make everyone laugh.
We love you, Colette.
You will be deeply, profoundly, and forever missed. ❤️
