Grief.

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I know less than ten people who have had a child die.  Although I couldn’t begin to understand the depths of what they were going through, or what to say to them, I  thought their grief was something they would slowly move through, eventually making their way to the other side. That is now very unsettling to me, to have put their grief into a linear process of healing, assuming they would reach the other side, but how would I have understood until I experienced it for myself?  A family member told me shortly after Emery died. “I now know how to respond to other people’s grief in a much more empathetic manner.”  It’s been a terrible way to learn empathy, as well as the depths that grief can reach.  To those to whom I thought my condolences were enough, my sincere apologies.   I was wrong.

Grief, when it comes, is nothing like we expect it to be,” Joan Didion, from her book, “The Year of Magical Thinking.”  It sure isn’t, although I never anticipated what it would be.  And to Joan Didion’s observation, I’ll add, it’s also not being continuously hunched over with head in hands and a Kleenex box in front of you (well, sometimes), or not being able to get out of bed (again, sometimes), but rather, it’s learning how to adjust to the new reality that’s been thrown at you while learning to process the change one minute, one hour, one day at a time. 

Some days, the reality of grief is a closed fist coming straight to my heart, and other days, I muster up the strength to look the other way, but only after I throw some obscenities in its direction first.

I live in two worlds. One where I pretend everything is alright, because that’s what everyone wants and needs for me right now, and the other, where my heart is silently screaming in pain.  Neither world feels comfortable or normal or remotely like home, and sometimes I have a foot in both.  It is a precarious balance that feels like my shoes are on the wrong feet with slick soles and unsure terrain.

Grief also feels like homesickness to me; the craving and need to step back into the place that holds familiarity and comfort. I’m still trying to figure out where I find my home while circumnavigating a huge crevasse in the center of where I live.  I feel like I’m walking on tip-toes, peering into deep holes until vertigo hits, then backing up and stepping back into my life, pretending it is normal, and buying tomatoes and basil at the store because I forgot there was a planting season this year. I try to smile when the cashier asks me how it’s going, while adding another chocolate caramel to the conveyer belt.  

I get up every morning, make my coffee, open my computer, and write. I write daily letters to Emery (the texts and the phone calls I can no longer make) and fill pages on my computer, where one emotion easily turns into 1,700 words by the time I finish my second cup. My typed words are how I try to make sense of something that is impossible to understand. 

Grief is a hole, a void and a space of what used to be that becomes the placeholder for a constant replaying of what could have been and will never be.  My daughter, Emery, died and my heart and my life have been shattered. Even if it were possible to put all the pieces back together again, it would never be the same. I like to think of the Japanese process of Kintsugi, where the cracks of something broken are filled with precious metals. In the repairs to myself, my heart, and my soul, there would be a tangled roadmap of silver lines, intersecting and crossing over each other in the Kintsugi method of repair. Maybe it would be beautiful or interesting, but not the same as it was before.  Never the same. I’ve been given the unexpected task of learning how to live in a world that is missing one of its biggest anchors, and it feels unstable and empty. That feeling of instability is being played out in front of me, literally, with a broken ankle, as if I needed a real-life visual aid of confirmation.

I’ve had an ache in my chest, a shortness of breath, a clinched jaw that I don’t realize is clinched, and tears that roll down my cheeks without me realizing I’m crying.  The physical symptoms are difficult, as I’ve never navigated anything like this before. Still, I’d rather have the physical symptoms than the emotional.  The profound anguish, the hopelessness, and the confusion as to who I am or who I am becoming are more painful than any of the physical symptoms.  I can find temporary relief with my ankle, with ice and elevation and two Advil, but the emotional aspect, the reality of my life without my beautiful daughter, Emery, is a much different kind of pain.  I’d rather wear the boot and take the Advil.

Grief has become my tricky sidekick, who shows up unexpectedly and without warning or invitation.  I’ve gotten used to that.  I was having dinner a few weeks ago with one of Emery’s dearest friends, and we were seated at a table in a corner, with my seat facing into the restaurant and her’s to the entryway where no other table could see her.  We were recalling a story about Emery, and I started crying.  Ashley graciously offered to change seats with me so I wouldn’t be facing the many tables in the room.  I told her I appreciated her offer for my privacy, but that I had become comfortable crying, even sobbing, in public.  I also told her that I was sure Emery would have shaken her head at the way I was now styling the stamped silver barrette that used to be her’s. I needed Emery’s help. I glanced down at what I was wearing. I got the outfit right though, didn’t I?  Emery was right there with us. We drank flutes of champagne and in between tears, we laughed.

Never did I think crying in public would be something I’d become comfortable with, but when you do it so often, it’s no longer a unique, isolated incident.  A few weeks ago, when I was in Sedona for a week with various therapeutic practitioners, the sobbing in restaurants happened often, but became more of a spectacle as I was alone. I was exhausted at the end of the day, as digging into one’s heart and soul takes a tremendous amount of energy.  By the time I’d be seated at a restaurant, at the very unfashionable hour of 4:00 or 4:30, I would look like I had walked myself there with shoes on the wrong feet and clothes that were inside out and backwards.  It felt awkward.  I felt awkward, like nothing fit right.  Then, to start crying when a song began to play that evoked a specific time and memory, only made me more of a spectacle.  Or perhaps no one, short of the server, even noticed.  Either way, I no longer cower in embarrassment with displays of sadness and tears.  I just keep the dinner napkin in close reach.

Grief has become my unlikely teacher.  It is teaching me how to slow down and live with a presence that is new to me.  I used to multitask my life,  often resulting in less-than-desirable outcomes, and frequently having to redo what I had done so quickly and haphazardly the first time.  My brain can no longer operate that way.  I have learned through the many books I’ve read lately that grief affects the brain’s ability to perform tasks in the manner that had once been easy and routine.  The brain is using much of its capacity to figure out the enormity of what has happened, leaving less space for the daily tasks.  For example, I brought my knitting to Sedona, thinking I’d knit in the evenings.  I didn’t.  I’m usually a proficient knitter, but lately, I have spent more time unraveling and re-knitting to the point that the yarn is frazzled and tired of being worked.  On one of my last days in Sedona, I took my knitting out to the lovely deck of my hotel room, with a view of the red rocks in front of me and a gentle breeze coming in from the side.  I took the yarn, needles, and pattern out of my bag, with the hopeful anticipation that a new project always brings.  I realized I had brought not only the wrong needle size, but the two needles were different sizes.  My brain is not operating at full tilt.  I can’t even be trusted with knitting.  

I have cut storm drains and landscape rocks too close when parking, resulting in the need to buy two new tires in the past several months due to irreparable damage.  I’ve ordered clothing online and received two or even three of the same item because I added the item to the online shopping cart multiple times, and that is exactly what was sent — multiple items of the same thing.  I did that three times.  This has forced me to slow down to an almost stopping speed in order to get things right, and I’ve got to say, I don’t hate the new, slower, more in-the-moment version of me. I know this would also make Emery happy as she was constantly telling me to slow down and do one thing at a time. It is in the quiet, unfettered moments that I connect to Emery and feel her presence. If that means I accomplish less in a day because I’m moving slower and doing less, so be it.  I have to be present to win. 

The following words on grief popped up on my social media, who knows me well, even correcting my spelling of morning to mourning. It was as good an explanation as to how I feel right now as I’ve seen.

Grief is like surfing.  Except you’re blindfolded. In a hurricane.  And your surfboard is on fire. And the people on the shore are shouting surfing strategies for a storm they’ve never surfed.  And then shaking their heads at how you handle the waves.

I think of this every time I place my hand on my heart for comfort, but also to ensure that my life vest, which my family and friends have so lovingly put into place, is still there.  

Trying to Find Balance

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Random and unexpected things and places have become significant recently,  as they evoke memories of my 34 years with Emery. She was so woven into my life that it’s hard for me to know who I am without her. My search for her continues, even though I know she’s gone. It was Emery who asked me to leave Kansas City and move to Boulder, knowing only her, Miles, and baby Arlo.  It was Emery who bought me bone broth every day after my knee surgery, braided my hair, and remade my couch bed and instructed Arlo and Muna not to get too close to Laudie’s bandaged leg.  It was Emery who drove me to my colonoscopies, my four rounds of gum surgery several years ago, and brought food and flowers when I had COVID (3 times) and FaceTimed daily during the lockdown.  After delivering bags of groceries to my porch, always with flowers, we would stand on opposite sides of my yard, maintaining a safe distance, and talk. We’d both be in tears when we said goodbye.  She once told me we were so intertwined that sometimes she didn’t know where I ended and she started. I had thought only moms said things like that. Not only does it feel like a large part of my heart is gone, but it feels like a part of my very being has also left.  The memories, often surprising, are tiny sparks of connection that I either grab onto to absorb what they have to offer, or I avoid them, as I don’t feel emotionally ready. Videos of Emery fall into that category. I still can’t watch them.

Sometimes the nudges of yet one more thread that has started to unravel in the way Emery and I were woven together come unexpectedly, as well as the tears that follow.  I was at the doctor’s office earlier today to see how my ankle is healing.  Before meeting with the orthopedic doctor, a nurse came in to go over my information.  She asked if Emery Golson was still my emergency contact.  I bit my lip and said, “No.  I’ll change it.”  She didn’t comment, but why would she?  She didn’t know or need to know why Emery Golson was no longer my emergency contact.  A few minutes later, when Dr. Kramer told me my ankle was worse and I needed a different boot, one that came to my knee, and would need to wear it whenever I was upright. I asked, “Even in the middle of the night…” and he interrupted me before I could finish. “Yes, when you go to the bathroom,” adding it’s the first question patients ask. He added that if it isn’t better in three weeks, we would need to talk about surgery.

Tears started rolling down my face.  It wasn’t the surgery that brought on the tears. It was doing all of the hard stuff without Emery; without having Emery to call on my drive home, who would tell me it would be OK because she’d be there for me every step of the way.  Without Emery to bring the bone broth and anything else I needed because I was also told I can’t drive (it’s my right ankle). I had not seen Dr. Kramer initially, or he would have said no to my drive to Sedona. Instead, I went to Urgent Care, and they said the drive was OK, and also put me in the wrong boot. I had driven over 1,500 miles in the past few weeks, likely not helping my injury, and now, I’ve been told not to drive – not even to the store. Dr. Kramer noted the tears, then went on to tell me that although the recovery would be longer, the surgery would be pretty simple.  I nodded and thanked him.  He told me there was no need to thank me as he knew he had just ruined my day.  I thought about the woman at the bar in Santa Fe who saw my boot (my very short and incorrect boot ) and said, “You just never know, do you?”  No.  You never know. Those words have become my mantra.

Another memory took me by surprise yesterday, and I followed the nudge to understand it further. I was coming home from some errands, and passed a park that had a teeter-totter.  It’s not a piece of equipment commonly seen in parks now, as they have been replaced with climbing apparatuses and structures far cooler than the plank on a fulcrum.  I slowed down for a better look.  I don’t know why.  I pulled into the parking lot, still not sure why, but felt intrigued by the sight of the bright orange teeter-totter on the blue metal base.  I followed the lead of a teeter-totter that became a door to so much more than a piece of dated playground equipment.

I recalled a park where Emery and I used to go when her brothers were in preschool.  There was a playground area and a trail that went around a small lake.  After she had had enough of the swings and slide, we’d walk around the lake, with her in the stroller or her stuffed animals in the stroller while we both pushed it.  There was a teeter-totter in the playground area, and she was curious about it and wanted to “try it.”  I put her on one end while I gently added weight to the other, lifting her slowly in an up-and-down motion.  She was not impressed.  I slowly released her to the ground so she could get off and make her way to a piece of equipment that was more interesting.  My thoughts on the teeter-totter were similar, but I was more afraid of the piece of equipment than being bored by it.  I don’t remember the specifics of what brought on the fear for me, only that I was knocked to the ground when the person providing ballast on the other side exited without warning. I’m sure it wasn’t as dramatic as my words might indicate, but when you’re a small child and are not anticipating being dropped to the ground, it’s scary. Teeter-totters only function if someone is on the opposite end and there is an element of trust that they won’t leave you up in the air or worse, won’t drop you when they’re done.  Without the other person, the piece of equipment is useless.  

So there I sat, in the parking lot of a park, completely devoid of children, focused on a piece of equipment that I had grown to hate as a child. 

Playgrounds.  Memories.  I let my mind wander and thought about Emery and me as adults on a teeter-totter, with me having to adjust my placement as she was the lighter one.  Of course, this wasn’t a memory as Emery and I had never been on a teeter-totter together as adults, but the visual came to mind. The teeter-totter was a picture of how I feel these days.  It feels like Emery abruptly left the teeter-totter, leaving me to crash to the ground unexpectedly.  She is no longer on the other side of the plank to offer ballast.  I’m on the edge of the teeter-totter,  my knees bent up to my shoulders, looking up at the other end where Emery should be, but she’s gone, and no one is there to help lift me off this spot where I’ve crashed.  There are things you have to carry solo, and the grief of a mother losing a child is one such thing.  A hug, a phone call, a FaceTime, or an attentive listener who hands over a Kleenex mid-story, are all beautiful and helpful, but at the end of the day,  I am navigating this journey alone.  It is a solo job.

Nothing makes sense, including me sitting in the parking lot at a park staring at a teeter-totter that is conjuring up memories and made-up stories. Yet, in the stillness, where I live now, I see what I need to see: the pieces to a very large puzzle whose placement of pieces has become a daunting task, not knowing what that something will ultimately become. It’s hard to put a puzzle together, knowing that a significant portion will be missing. Emery once told me while we were working on a jigsaw puzzle, “Border first, Mom, then the rest will be easier.”  She was good at putting puzzles together, a skill her son, Arlo, also has.  She was also good at denying she was good with puzzles or even liked them, for that matter.  Well, Emery, I’m remembering what you told me regarding puzzles (whether you liked them or not).  I’m searching for pieces with straight edges that will serve as a frame for everything else, then the rest will be easier.  I don’t think the teeter-totter was a border piece, but I know it fits in there somewhere.

Navigating restaurants during difficult days…or at least trying to.

Two more glasses of ice would be brought before my dinner was over.

I ate at the restaurant next to my hotel,  not because it’s good, but because it’s easy.  It was closed for the past six days for renovations, and now, on my last night, it has opened again.  I ate there my first night a week ago and bookended it with my dinner tonight..  The food is not great, but the ease of not having to get into my car to drive somewhere is a huge gift for me tonight. However, the closure all week got me out and about to better restaurants, one in particular where I could watch small planes taking off and landing from my seat at the bar.  I’ve eaten there three times this week.  It also happens to be in a vortex, one of four in Sedona.  They are places where the Earth’s energy is particularly strong and is said to enhance spiritual growth and healing. I didn’t realize it was in a vortex when I went the first time, but I liked the restaurant even more for not advertising the vortex with specialty vortex drinks, or vortex vegetable of the day. The Mesa Grill felt comfortable to me, and I loved being able to watch small planes taxi to their tie-down spots so close to where I was eating at the bar.

Now that the restaurant attached to my hotel has reopened, it was the easier option tonight.  I’ve spent the past five days immersed in various forms of therapy, very little of it traditional talk therapy.  I’ve had equine therapy, where the horses co-regulated their nervous system to mine, leaving me with a feeling of peace and a broken ankle that no longer hurt.  I’ve hiked, well, given the circumstances, walked a short distance, to a vortex site where the practitioner brought me a chair to sit on and we talked, listened, and absorbed our beautiful surroundings.  I’ve been introduced to a form of healing breathwork that is paired with specific music and learned about the native teachings of the medicine wheel and its significance to the seasons and the elements of the earth, all while honoring Emery.  It was a ceremony that began with a coyote standing in front of the practitioner’s car as he drove us to a parking spot at Crescent Moon Park.  The coyote stood in front of the car long enough that Jim put the car in park, while he explained the significance of a coyote’s presence.  That coyote and Jim seemed to know, and so I listened and watched, and it was five minutes of a coyote looking at us, not moving, that I’ll never forget.  So, tonight,  I’m exhausted in the same way I feel after being in a writing workshop, but without the social element.  It has all caught up to me, and all I want to do is sleep.  That being said, I opted for the marginal food at the restaurant I could walk to from my room at the Wilde Hotel.  

I asked my server for a glass of ice as I could see the margarita I ordered felt thin on ice, and I like to be able to sip through the cubes.  Did she notice I was in a different headspace than the rest of her customers, including the man on the opposite side of the patio who also had a boot on but seemed to be doing just fine with it and life in general?  I don’t know.  But she brought me a glass filled with crushed ice every time she was near my table.  Crushed ice is barely ice, but I thanked her, and the glasses filled with ice melted as I made my way through my salad.

A mother and a daughter were seated next to me.  I know this for a fact as I heard the younger of the two refer to the older woman as Mom.  They wore similar shoes.  Our tables on the outside patio were very close to each other, and their feet were in full view for me.  I wondered if the daughter had told her mom about the shoes and the striped pants she wore, which seemed bold in contrast to the rest of her outfit. I’m guessing yes.  As I’ve said in many posts, I’m a self-proclaimed snoop, and I couldn’t help but overhear that it was the mom’s birthday.  The daughter took photos of her mom and showed them to her.  The mom didn’t like any of them.  I understood.  It was Emery and me, right down to the striped pants on the mom who rejected every photo but then said they were all fine, because that’s what moms do.

The daughter discussed an upcoming trip to Paris, mentioning that she might stay.  The mom was hesitant about that idea.  I wanted to insert my opinion and tell the mom to respond with unbridled enthusiasm.  She can always visit, but I didn’t think the daughter was serious, and I think the mom knew that, simply because moms know, sometimes even before the daughter knows.

I noticed the daughter was wearing an engagement ring and had to wonder if the two of them had shopped for a dress, found a location, or had made any decisions together. Were they local to Sedona?  I didn’t think so.  Maybe they came up for the weekend from Phoenix, or one of them did, and the other flew in for a mother/daughter weekend.  My mind goes wild when I’m seated alone and spying on the table next to me.  Sometimes it’s for entertainment purposes, but tonite, it felt deeper, like I needed to step into a time I no longer had access to.

My server brought me another glass with ice.  She’s trying. When she left, I looked at my phone because it seemed like the right thing to do, rather than at the mother-daughter duo next to me. And because of my shifting algorithm, a post on grief appeared first.  It offered tips to calm your mind when logic doesn’t work.  It instructed me to run through the alphabet, coming up with three words for each letter, with a free pass for “X.” I counted cars in the parking lot in front of me instead.  There were too many white ones.  I returned to the alphabet exercise, stopping at J, while feeling annoyed with the letter J because so few words start with J.  Grief is a strange animal.  It had me angry with the letter J.

The server came to ask me if everything was okay, awkwardly, then quickly backed away from me because I was crying. I knew she was referencing my food and not my frame of mind, but I could sense her uneasiness with what she had just asked me.  Is everything Ok?  People crying, even silently and quietly, are scary.  I couldn’t blame her as I would have done the same thing.  I’m a tough customer these days.  After wiping the tears and composing myself, I asked her for the check without making eye contact.  She kindly asked if I was a local, and I kindly responded, no.  When she set down the check, she told me to have a safe journey, to which I smiled and said, “Thank you.”  My server is afraid of me.  I’m also afraid of myself. 

After five days of intense therapy, very little of it involving talk therapy, I had been ripped open and exposed to the elements.  I probably should not have been out in public.  My soul has gone through an excavation, as I picked through the layers of sadness and grief.  I’m terribly vulnerable.  It feels like I’ve had open heart surgery and am walking home from the hospital.  That doesn’t seem like a good idea on any front.  I left my server an inappropriately large tip.  Maybe she’ll understand I meant well, but walking home from open heart surgery is a difficult journey, even more so in a medical boot.  If neighboring tables didn’t see the tears, they for sure noticed the boot, as, regardless of how carefully I step, it makes an awkward clumping noise. 

As I was exiting the patio of the restaurant, I made eye contact with the man I saw earlier who was also wearing a boot, but his boot, also on his right foot, extended to his knee.  Mine only goes to several inches above my ankle.  We looked at each other and smiled.  He said, “Looks like you’re getting around fine despite the boot, huh?”  To which I answered, “Well, at least my boot doesn’t go to my knee like yours!”  He smiled, and I walked away thinking that my point of gratitude this evening was that my boot didn’t go to my knee.  It feels like bottom feeding for positives, but I’ll take it, with both arms outstretched.

Table for One, Two Years Later

Santa Fe – A Tapestry of Memories for me

My dining experience last night wasn’t exactly a second chapter to my “Table for One” that I posted almost two years ago, but it kept coming to mind during my recent time in Santa Fe, so I decided to loosely link the two.   For those who have no idea what I’m talking about, reference my blog post dated 8/2023, “Table for One.”  

I’ve returned to Santa Fe, a few months shy of my visit two years ago, when I was weeks away from my knee replacement.  I was feeling sorry for myself— no longer able to hike and in pain with even short walks, so I decided to drive to Santa Fe, stay at the gorgeous Bishop’s Lodge that my daughter, Emery, had recommended, and have a few days of pampering.  The lodge offered rides into the city square for those without cars or who preferred not to drive themselves.  I had been diagnosed with the dreaded “bone on bone”  with my knee, and walking farther than a few blocks was difficult for me.  This was a hard realization for someone who has spent many vacations traversing large parts of Spain and Ireland on foot,  but pain had lowered my expectations, and I set my pride aside and rode in the van from my hotel to Santa Fe’s Plaza.  This was the night that I found myself at Cafe Sena with the woman seated next to me at the bar, drunk on frozen rosé, whom I referred to as Flo in my essay because, well, she looked like a Flo.  Almost two years later and with a new knee, I returned to Cafe Sena, ironically, also with limited mobility due to a hairline fracture in my ankle that happened a few days earlier with a slip on wet grass and dog poop in my grandchildren’s yard.  Seriously,  I couldn’t make this up if I tried.  So, once again with limited mobility, and a cumbersome boot on my right foot, I limped my way to Cafe Sena, only to see a notification that the restaurant was closed “until further notice” with the added sentence of “but we’re working on this as quickly as we can,” which gave me little confidence.

My second choice, still within walking distance with a boot, was The Shed.  Anyone who has spent any time in Santa Fe has either eaten at The Shed or heard of it.  It has been serving up plates heaped with tacos, enchiladas, and burritos served with red or green salsa (or Christmas if you want both) since 1953.  As expected, and even at ten minutes before opening, the crowds had started gathering on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant.  I didn’t want to wait for what I was told could be two hours for a table, even after emphasizing I only needed a table for one,  but then I realized how ridiculous that sounded, as there was no such thing as a table for one unless a chair is removed.  The only other option, and without a wait, was to eat at the bar, which sounded like a good solution.  Even better if I were seated next to a “Flo-like” character, which is always good fodder for writing.

I headed to the back of the restaurant where the bar was and squeezed myself into the one open bar stool.  I was seated next to a couple who were deep in conversation with an exuberant man and his quiet wife, who sat on the other side of them. The overly exuberant man, whom I’m going to call Frank, was not drunk on frozen rosé like Flo, but he reminded me of Flo in the way he was enjoying taking command of his small section of the bar. Because I’m a self-proclaimed snoop, I began to lean in closer when I heard the woman seated next to me mention a knee replacement. This also caught the attention of Frank, who just happened to be an orthopedic surgeon. Unlike many in the medical profession whom I’ve met before, he was more than happy to jump in with stories, suggestions, and his professional opinion on both the surgery and the post-op.  I was entertained just by listening and decided not to share my personal experience, at least not yet, as the exuberant and very loud doctor seemed unwilling to give up his spotlight in the conversation.  After about 15 minutes, Dr. Frank and his wife left, and I found my opening with the woman with the new knee.  I casually mentioned to her that I overheard the words knee replacement adding that I had been down the same road almost two years ago.  I have learned since my knee replacement that there is a loosely formed club for those who have been down the same path, and knee replacement surgeries in a patient’s 50s or 60s have often replaced the childbirth stories of our 20s and 30s. 

We talked in between bites of food and I shared with her the tips that helped me on my journey as she was only a few months out.  Then she asked me if I had any children because it had been her daughter who had been so helpful to her during her early days home from the hospital.  I realized in that moment that although I was in the same area with an injured joint, this trip was not at all the same, as my heart had the larger injury, and not my fractured ankle. I hesitated. I took a bite of my food, then asked if they were visiting or were they natives to Santa Fe, totally avoiding her question.  My avoidance didn’t seem to be an issue and she and her husband, almost in unison, told me they were natives.  There are times and situations where either not responding or telling a lie feels like the only option because at that moment, I was enjoying my dinner and the company, and I knew I couldn’t say yes, three children, two living, without crying or evoking further questions.  I would have happily returned to a bone-on-bone knee as I had two years ago, with a heart that was intact, to where I was in that moment. I also wouldn’t be meandering my way home through Taos as I did two years ago, but instead, would be driving to Sedona the next day for a week of intense therapy focusing on grief.

Santa Fe is a city that has become a tapestry of memories for me, many of them with Emery. We took many spring break family ski trips to Santa Fe, with Emery realizing after one run that she hated skiing. I’d try my best to persuade Emery to stick with it because skiing really was fun, but she knew what she wanted and didn’t want and we’d end up driving back down the mountain to spend our day in town while the rest of the family skied.  I loved skiing, but I also loved spending the day with Emery, wandering through Santa Fe, finding the off the beaten path stores, which ended up being where most of our furniture came from.  Those times came to mind as I was limping my way to The Shed for dinner. My last time with Emery was 7 1/2 years ago, when Emery, baby Arlo, and I made a road trip to Santa Fe, and last minute my son Thomas and his wife, Brooke joined us.  Shortly before dinner on this recent trip, I sat on the same couch in the lobby of the Loretto Hotel, where I had sat with Brooke and Emery, with baby Arlo in her lap.  Stepping back into the tapestry of those memories is both painful and comforting at the same time, and I’m struck, once again, at how often love and grief have run into each other during my journey. 

 I said my goodbyes to the couple next to me, adding a specific, it will get easier every day with the new knee to the woman I had been chatting with.  The bar chairs were very close together, and I slowly maneuvered my way out of my chair,  while clumsily making my way away from the bar with my oversized boot leading the way.  As I was leaving, the woman, who I think was named Christie, but I’m not sure, said, “Oh my gosh… what happened to your foot?  You’re wearing a boot!”  I had hoped to sneak out without explanation, but instead, stopped, shrugged my shoulders, and said, “Yeah, a boot due to a hairline fracture.  Life has given me some challenges lately.”  My jeans were bunched up around the top of the boot, giving off very pathetic and sad vibes.  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Christie, or was it Chrystal?  “Life can certainly be unpredictable, and you just never know, do you?”  “No,” I answered.  “You really don’t.”  And those words would be the truest words I would speak all night.  

I limped to the door, through the patio, and onto the street before realizing I was crying.  It’s become so normal for me that it sneaks its way in without notice.  

You just never know, do you?

No, you really don’t.

Mother’s Day, May 2025

Crested Butte, Colorado, my 60th birthday

I always think of you when I hear the Fleetwood Mac song Gypsy.  For years, that song has reminded me of you, and I always picture you in your Alaska days.  Tonight, during their show, for the first time I felt myself reflecting back on my pre-Arlo days, thinking like a gypsy in spirit.  I kept thinking about how cool it would have been if you and I were able to meet when we were both in our young twenties.  I think we would have been best friends.  Thank you for gifting me with a part of your spiritual gypsy soul.  Love you always!  Emery December 3, 2018

Emery sent this email to me after a Fleetwood Mac concert, when she was living in Fort Collins and I was still in KC, but would be moving to Boulder the following summer. I liked to think about Emery and me as friends— going to concerts together and wearing vintage clothing with braids in our hair.  I held her idea, knowing that someday we would go to a Fleetwood Mac concert and pretend to be in our early 20s, instead of a young mother and grandmother. Those words hold far more value for me today, as do the conversations, the photos, the experiences, and the plans that never came to fruition, because now they carry the weight of being finite entities.

This is not the typical beginning to a Mother’s Day post for me, with musings of pop tarts on make-shift trays and kids fighting over who gets to sit next to mom. Instead, I’ve been dreading this Mother’s Day.  Emery, who is why I landed in Boulder,  and was the one who ensured I was given a proper Mother’s Day celebration, is gone.  I don’t know what to do with the day or myself, knowing that her plans for us to celebrate our roles as mamas will be painfully absent.

Last year on Mother’s Day, Emery and I celebrated our motherhood doing what we loved — we played in the dirt and planted three carloads of perennials in her front yard. Emery did what I never could on Mother’s Day. She told Miles she wanted to spend the day planting with me after our family brunch. It was her version of me wanting to go to the movies by myself for Mother’s Day, but unlike me, she asked for what she wanted and got it.   Miles took the children fishing, and Emery and I rolled up our sleeves and dug in the dirt.  We planted, we laughed, we told stories, and we cried, all with the beautiful music of Stephen Sanchez in the background.  Emery preferred the wild, untamed, and overgrown look of an English garden, whereas I preferred the orderly and tidy look of a French garden. I told her we would know exactly who planted what in three years, as her area would be a tangled mess.  She smiled at me and said, “I know, Mom…exactly like I like it.”  I told her it would be fun to see the results of our plantings on the following Mother’s Day, when much of what we planted would be beginning to show blooms.  She suggested we do the same thing the following Mother’s Day.  I agreed.  I loved the tradition we had set into motion.


We talked about travel plans — a trip to NYC, and when the children were at an age when she could leave them for a longer stretch, maybe Paris.  She said she would visit me when I returned to the house I had rented on the Oregon Coast the following year, cloudy days and all and asked me where I wanted to celebrate my 70th birthday.  Emery had planned my 50th and 60th birthday celebrations, so I knew my 70th would be no exception.  The anticipation felt good.  We had so much to look forward to.  That ended on January 4th, at 11:38 am — a time on the clock and forever in my heart that marked my before and after.  It became my line of demarcation between when my life was whole and when a big part was gone.  It marks the time from when I looked forward to the trips and plans made, to not wanting to do anything. It is my before, when joy was present and my heart felt full, and now the after,  when I can barely get out of bed in the morning, can’t sleep at night, and cry without reserve or explanation at inopportune times.  It marks the time when I knew who I was, to the time when I have no idea who I am, or who I will become in my grief of missing my darling girl.  It marks the time before, when I bought two Mother’s Day cards last year to be given on two consecutive Mother’s Days, because they were that good, to the time after,  where there will always be an unsigned Mother’s Day card in the top drawer of my desk, because I bought it for Emery, and no one else. 

Thomas and Grant, who I became a mother to before Emery was born, have mothered me since January 4th and the 48 hours that preceded that difficult day.  They held me up, gave me their shoulders to cry into, came to me from another room when they heard me sobbing, and never once told me it would be ok, because we all knew it never would be. As we were leaving Emery’s hospital room the morning she died, Thomas said, “You can’t hold your sister’s hand while the machines that were keeping her alive are turned off and walk out of the room the same person.”  He was so right. We are all changed, and our love of Emery and each other is holding us together. Through their love, I have found my respite and refuge and because they are a part of me, they are the ones who can help me carry the tremendous load of grief I have for the part of their life and mine that is missing.   They have been by my side as we navigate this unfamiliar journey that often feels like an icy precipice with limited visibility on a knife-edge cliff. They have become my strength, my comfort, and the outstretched hands in person and words over the phone that have become my stability. They are my comfort.  They are my world. They are my opening into the wisdom of how we will carry this grief and how to set it down, if only for a moment. They carry stories that only we know, that are now safeguarded for Emery and Miles’ children, Arlo and Muna. To Thomas and Grant,  I’m honored that you call me Mom on this most difficult of Mothers’ Days and every day after.  You hold my heart. 


Emery’s Dad, Charlie,  and I were with our girl for her first breath and also her last.  We linked the circle of Emery’s being in the hospital room, overcrowded with machinery, anticipation, and hope, while time slipped and stalled and ended with a painful loss, whose depth we are still grappling with. And just as Thomas would later confirm, we filed out of her room, different from the people who had entered.

I’ve been going through the files on my computer titled Emery.  In it are countless letters and essays I’ve written to or about Emery, along with emails from her. I found the words I wrote for her Celebration of Life, and next to that, a copy of her death certificate.  That last entry makes it feel like the file had been closed, but it hasn’t.  It can’t be closed just like I can’t tell people I have two children.  I have three, two of them living. In rereading the essays and letters, there is a common thread of my difficulties in letting go that started with her going to kindergarten and ended with  her getting married, and eventually, moving to Colorado.  I didn’t want to let go.  I didn’t know how.  I learned the night after getting her settled in her dorm room at college, when she called and asked if I could return to college and be her roommate, she didn’t know how to let go either.  I knew she was joking, but I also understood the sentiment behind her words.  We missed each other when we weren’t physically close.  One of the letters I found in the collection was one she wrote me for my 60th birthday.  I stopped and started it several times as it was painful to read and decided to include part of it given that it’s Mother’s Day.

August 30, 2015 (from Emery)

“You taught me to always listen to my intuition and follow my heart. I’m so glad I listened to you because I wouldn’t be who I am today if it were not for you.

This is what I’ve learned about the heart and the mother and child’s bond:

When two people are near one another, their hearts’ electromagnetic fields synchronize.  This synchronization is like a support system, one heart learning to beat with the other.  The first begins in utero, when the mother’s and baby’s hearts synchronize. When you’re away from that person, your heart goes through a period where it has to focus on beating without the other heart, and it takes some time for your heart to get back to beating on its own in a normal fashion.  This is the feeling of heartache or missing the person.  It is real.

As two people who have spent so much time together, our hearts sigh with relief when we are together, Mom,  because we are so familiar with each other.  So, when I say I love you from the bottom of my heart, I really, really mean it.  I love you so much, Mom. Emery”  

You were right, my darling girl, the feeling of heartache is real. I wonder how much time it will be before my broken heart goes back to beating in the way it beat before January 4th at 11:38, if that will ever happen.

I’ve often spoken of the umbilical cord when writing about mothering, or the metaphorical cord after the physical one has been cut.  I’ve referenced my umbilical cord stretching itself to three different parts of the country, where my three children lived.  I don’t know how far Emery’s cord stretches now, but I know it’s still there. I can feel its tug when I see Muna’s big brown eyes and soft curls, so much like her Mama, or when Arlo leaned in at our birthday dinner, wanting me to tell him stories about his Mama.  I will tell him all the stories I can remember, and story by story, word by word, he and Muna will have the tools to paint a picture of their Mama when she was a child.   I feel the cord wrapping itself around my own heart, which is no longer intact, yet, the connections continue —a red-tailed hawk circling overhead, a quarter found on the floor next to my bed with 1990 on it, and a framed photo also near my bed that randomly fell over yesterday. Connections are different, but present. 

I used to tell my kids that I would stand before a moving train if I had to to protect them.  I spoke metaphorically, but the deeper I got into motherhood, the less metaphorical that statement became.  I’m sorry I couldn’t stop that train on Jan 4th, Emery. I couldn’t even find the tracks, and as a mother, not being able to come to your rescue has been so painful that I sometimes struggle to find my breath. 

My Mother’s Day post in 2017 was dedicated to Emery as she had just given birth to her son, Arlo, four days earlier, ironically, on my firstborn, Thomas’s, birthday.

It feel timely to include an excerpt from that post.

Mother’s Day, May 4th, 2017

I will always be your mother, and you will always be my daughter, but now we’re entering into a new place, given that we both are mothers now, and that in and of itself is just about the most beautiful and perfect thing I can think of on this very first Mother’s Day for you. 

You will have days that you feel like you are swimming upstream in mud, and it will be hard to maneuver yourself out of the mire, but you’ll figure it out, and before you begin to slump into a human question mark, rest assured, dry land is never out of sight.  You’ll stumble, you’ll fumble, you’ll eat a bag of chips with a salsa chaser for breakfast, and you’ll call pajamas clothes for more days than you care to admit, and to that I say “do it.”  And do it repeatedly because you deserve every morsel of not-so-healthy and every hour of long past time to get out of your jammies.  You’re a mama now.  Claim that right with pride.

You grew up with a mom who often felt like that frazzled, wild-haired bus driver in the Magic School Bus series, which I greeted at the time with a sigh and a promise to myself to get it right the next time. Still, decades later and without apologies, I realize that the messy, the dirty, the not wearing the right shoes, or shoes at all, and letting go of a whole lot of shoulds and coulds, just might have been one of the best gifts I could give you.  I can’t end this letter without a big shout-out to your partner in life and love, Miles.  His hands-on fathering melts my heart. What a lucky baby Arlo is to have you both as parents.

From one mother to another, I wish you the best of everything and several consecutive hours of sleep this Mother’s Day, dear Emery.  Only now that you are a Mom, can you begin to understand how much I love you. And I do.  So much.

Still.

To all reading this, celebrate your role as a Mom, or celebrate your Mom today.  It matters deeply.

Mother’s Day, 2012

The moments that your heart holds tight….

It’s the small things in life that seem to hold the most real estate in my heart – not from birthdays or weddings or special holidays, but rather, the moments from every day life that surprise me and have me wanting to push the pause button and absorb it before it moves past.   I had one of those moments on my last morning in Colorado, while staying with my daughter, son-in-law and 10 month-old grandson.

I was sitting on an ottoman that I had pushed up in front of the windowed door to the deck with my grandson,  Arlo, on my lap.  It was early morning and the sun was still making it’s last climb over the horizon, leaving a soft yellow glow in the house; that very peaceful time of day when everything seems to move a bit slower, including 10 month-old babies.  A herd of 20 or so mule deer were slowly making their way across their land, close enough to the house that they were easily spotted by both of us, even though their coats were camouflaged against the color of the winter grass.  When Arlo spotted them, he quickly looked up to me to insure that I also saw them, then pointed his small finger at them,  looked up at me again and smiled.  Arlo is a very busy, very mobile baby, so the  moments seemed borrowed in a way and I held onto them as long as I could as I knew while it was happening that it was a moment and a feeling  I’d later savor.

We sat there  for several minutes, quietly watching as the deer slowly made their way across the land behind the house, Arlo’s eyes wide with fascination. When he had seen enough, he turned his attention towards me and  grabbed my necklace, as he often does because he’s a baby and that’s what babies do, but this time he held it in his small hand as if he was really examining it, rather than simply trying to pull it off of my neck.  It’s a small silver disc with  the words “protect this woman” surrounding a small turquoise piece in the center.  I’ve worn it continually  around my neck for the past 5 years.  He seemed very curious about it.  Someday, Arlo, I will tell you about the day that I found the necklace in a small shop in Leadville, CO.  I will tell you that in the previous months, I had climbed to the top of five 14,000 foot peaks, by myself, and although I have a weakness for silver and turquoise, it was the words on that small disc that had me buying it without hesitation.  I’ll explain how even though it is only a piece of jewelry that I wear around my neck, somehow, it makes me feel just a tiny bit safer.  I’ll show you, someday, what it felt like to climb those five tall peaks and will give you the handful of tips I discovered  as we climb them together.

I will also tell you about the first morning after my young family had moved into our new home,  when your Mom was not even three,  and I saw a huge buck circling the large cedar tree in the front of our house and how mesmerized I was by the site of him and the fact that there he was, right in our own front yard. There’s just something about watching deer so close to where you live in the early morning hours.   I’ll tell you that those 5 acres that surrounded our new home made me feel like I was living on a ranch as I had never lived in a place with so much land around me.  You’ll laugh about that one, no doubt, as living with a lot of land around you is all you have known, but that’s ok.    At some point, I’ll  tell you the rest of my deer story… the part where the deer could wipe out days of work in my garden during their early morning feedings and how I spent countless hours and endless experimentation trying to deter them.  Even so, that morning when I saw the buck circling the cedar tree, just feet from our front porch, still wins on the deer memories for me.  Did I mention that it was snowing lightly that morning?

As I sat there in the quiet house, with Arlo  on my lap, I felt the awe of the role of Grandma that I was blessed with a short 10 months ago.  It’s a role that I covet dearly, first, because I am a mom and to see my baby take on the very role that shaped the biggest part of my life is beyond miraculous to me.  Second, because of my own grandparents and the important role they all played in me becoming who I am today.  My love of knitting, sewing, gardening, photography, writing and love of travel were all introduced to me by my grandparents, whether directly with a hand reaching over mine as I held a red plastic knitting needle as it formed stitches or indirectly, simply by exposure.

The silver bangle that I’ve worn on my right wrist since I was 16, is one of many continual reminders of their influence  in my life.  I can remember my maternal grandmother, always with an armful of silver bangles, and the noise she would make when she entered a room.  Her granddaughters were each given one of her bangles when she died and I’ve carried that little bit of her on my wrist ever since.  There are other reminders that come in flashes – the first bloom of the iris in the spring, a well-written, witty letter, a bolt of fabric with its limitless possibilities when a sewing machine and a lot of patience are added, skeins of yarn and needles and the hope of sweaters that will fit and the ever present  camera that resulted in boxes and boxes of  beautifully captured photographs.  These are the pieces of my life that have given me my sense of passion and have pushed my creativity in ways that continue to challenge me. If I can contribute in  a similar way to my own grandson’s life, I will feel like I’m not only sharing some of who I am with him, but I’m giving thanks to my own grandparents in the process.

Last week, I was in a baby store shopping with someone who I’ve called my best friend since I was 15 years old.  She was shopping for her  6 week-old grand son, and I was shopping for Arlo.  We hadn’t been there long when it hit me and in between the oohs and ahhhs and is this cute?  too cute?  and how big will he be in 6 months?,  I stopped,  pondered the reality of the moment, and commented.

“Look at us….friends for 3/4 of our lives, you living on the east coast for most of it,  and me in the midwest,  and here we are, in a baby shop in Breckenridge, Colorado, shopping for our grandsons.  Could you even have begun to imagine that out of all the searches we made together… the clothes,  the parties, the guys, the fun the beer and the cheap clothes and babysitting jobs to pay for those cheap clothes and maybe someone with a fake ID to buy the cheap beer, that someday our search together would be for baby clothes… for our grandsons???”

A beautiful passage of time seemed to have had us both in its collective hug and the 46 years had brought us to a moment that I think caught us both off guard.  We became grandmas for the first time 9 months apart and after sharing so many firsts, we’re sharing one again.

So, Arlo, that moment we watched the deer with the sun rising at our backs, tucked away in the quiet of the house  with you seated on my lap,  was one moment of countless moments to come.  I have so much to tell you and share with you and if just one of those many moments impacts you enough that someday you’re sharing it with your own child or grandchild, or really anyone, then I will have succeeded and that yarn of all of our collective experiences will continue to knit the stories that will connect the generations.   We  are all a part of the creation of something quite beautiful – stitch by stitch, row by row, that continues to grow.

Stories for my Grandchildren

Today,  I am seated on the same blue couch I sat on a year ago, looking out of the same picture windows at the same spot on the Oregon Coast.   I remember the story I wrote that day after being moved by what I had seen earlier at the beach.  The story has stayed with me and has become far more relevant and meaningful over the past few months than the day I wrote it. 

I had witnessed a small gathering of people standing shoulder to shoulder at the water’s edge with their faces and attention all towards the sea.  I was drawn to their stillness and connection to something I couldn’t see but could feel.  As I got closer, close enough to see the individuals in the group, while respectfully maintaining my distance, I saw someone seated in front of the group who appeared to be younger than those standing.  She wore a yellow raincoat.  The person at the end of the group moved next to the girl, squatted down, put his hand on her back, and handed her a box.  The girl held the box to her chest, then returned it to the man, picked up a stick, and began carving something into the sand.  When she was finished, the man returned the box to her and the group slowly walked away from the water in a single file, with the girl in the yellow raincoat trailing behind. I had walked away from the group, not wanting to intrude, and when I returned, I saw the letters MA carved into the sand.  The tide may have erased the first part of the word,  or maybe that was all she wrote.  Was it MA?  Or were they the last two letters of MAMA?  I wasn’t sure, but the image drawn beside it was unmistakable—a heart.

I may not have gotten the details right, and that didn’t matter, but what I did get right was the witnessing of love that the line-up of people had for someone who was no longer with them. It made me think of my three children and what they would look like had it been me who they were honoring and mourning. A year later, that is not the story I’m telling.  Instead, it is my two sons and I who are metaphorically standing at the water’s edge, mourning the passing of my sons’ only sister and my only daughter. It’s not the order of life we expected, and we still grapple with the reality that it happened. My daughter, Emery, who was not even as old as I was when I gave birth to her, is no longer with us. Of course, Emery’s metaphorical lineup at the water’s edge would be much larger than just me and her two brothers and would include her father, her husband, her two children, and her two sisters-in-law, for starters.

Emery was always my first text after I’d post a new blog.  She’d praise my words, noting specific parts that moved her or made her laugh, indicating that she had read the piece and wasn’t just giving me a quick “ I loved it!” acknowledgment. I remember her text after I posted my story of the lineup of people on the beach, and I could quote her exact words if I felt brave enough emotionally to scroll through her texts, but I don’t.  She later told me she could see herself and her brothers doing exactly what I said in the piece…“Talking over each other and interrupting with stories about Mom because there had been so many, but she should be here telling them because she was the storyteller.” I won’t get her response to this post.

Witnessing what I did that morning had me thinking about my death and how my family would react.  It’s not something that I think of often, but after seeing the group of people mourning someone they loved and leaning into each other in sorrow, thoughts of my death were softened by the love that has woven us together as a family.   I never thought it would be the youngest family member we would be saying goodbye to first.

This morning, a year later, I thought about the girl in the yellow raincoat, who I guessed to be a young teen.  She was the one I related to, especially after seeing the letters MA  and the heart carved into the sand.  As a Mama who said goodbye to her daughter, who was also a Mama, I became the girl in the yellow raincoat.  The oldest and the Mom in our family of five made an unlikely connection with the youngest in the lineup of people on the beach because of a heart drawn in the sand and two letters that I have turned into the word Mama for the story’s sake.  She missed her Mama, and I am a Mama who misses her child.  We have a connection.

Back in the mid-70s, when I was getting my pilot’s license, I became close friends with Leigh, who was also in her late teens, working on her pilot’s license.  Leigh and I connected with our experiences, enjoying each other’s stories far more than anyone else would.  Several times a week, we’d return to the fixed base operation at the small regional airport where I worked after closing. She’d park her car at the edge of the tarmac, and we’d lay on the car’s roof, looking at the stars and watching the lights of the planes as they descended onto the runway while passing a bottle of Cold Duck back and forth. It was a rich environment for sharing dreams, most of them in the skies.  Our conversations were punctuated by “this will be something we will tell our grandkids” because we thought it would be our role as grandmas to share stories that would have our grandchildren on the edge of their seats. It became our tagline and our push to do things that scared us — more stories for our grandchildren.  I had no idea at the time that the stories I would be telling two of my grandchildren would not be about my flying escapades but rather would be stories about their Mama, some that only I could tell them.  I will tell them the stories their Mama won’t be able to tell them. I will be the one to tell them she loved red shoes as a little girl, twirly skirts, and could French braid her hair when she was in kindergarten.  I will tell them she had a deathly fear of silverfish, and it had nothing to do with the holes they made in coveted sweaters.  I will tell them that for many years, she would only eat yogurt if it had goldfish crackers in it, and so that’s how I prepared it for her.  I will tell them I sang to her at night until she was old enough to sing along, and it became a nightly show rather than a peaceful transition to slumber.

In the same way, I would sit with my Dad in his last few years and ask for more stories, so afraid he would die before I had them all, I need to make sure Arlo and Muna have all the stories I can remember about their Mama.  It will be healing for me and information for them. I will feel Emery’s presence as I ramble on to Arlo and Muna with stories about their Mama. I will feel her beside me, nodding and smirking, then saying, “Well, that’s not exactly how it happened…”. And I’ll look back at her with raised brows, and she will correct herself and say, “You’re right and some exaggeration is OK because you’re the storyteller and you have a captive audience.”  At least, that’s what I imagine.  In telling my daughter’s stories, the edges of the missing part of my heart will soften. Salve to my heart will become information for Arlo and Muna.  I thought about the “stories we will tell our grandchildren”  while walking on a beach a short drive from where I’m staying. A few minutes later,  I noticed I had missed a call from Leigh.  We hadn’t talked in over 15 years.  I sat on a rock to listen to her message and saw a heart-shaped rock in the sand, directly in front of my boot. I looked up, half expecting to also see a red-tailed hawk, but only saw a seagull.   Emery is with me, and she’s making sure I know it.

As I returned to my car,  a couple reading the trailhead map at the edge of the parking lot stopped me and asked me if it was a hard hike down to the beach.  “Hard?  No, not at all.  It’s very easy and quite lovely.”  They thanked me and were on their way.  I paused, wondering why I had done what I did, responding to their question with the information they wanted but with a definite British accent.  I don’t normally respond to people I don’t know with a British accent.  Actually,  I’ve never done that before in my life, but there are many things I’m doing now that I’ve never done before as I’m navigating an unpredictable path. The only explanation I could come up with is that during these heavy days of sadness and grief, I don’t always want to be who I am.  I don’t want to be a Mom who has endured something that no Mom should ever have to endure.  Instead, I became a British woman, perhaps on holiday, enjoying a short hike and an afternoon at the beach.  Maybe someday, that will be added to the long line-up of stories I’ll tell Arlo and Muna.  The story of grief being so difficult to maneuver that their Laudie pretended to be someone else and spoke with a British accent. 

Many of the stories I will share with Arlo and Muna were recorded when they happened in journals and essays I’ve written and collected since the day I found out I was pregnant with their Mama.  As I sit here today, on the same blue couch, looking out of the same picture window to a part of the country I’ve come to love, I think about the girl in the yellow raincoat.  I wonder if, a year later, the raw edges of her grief have been softened and if she asks the others who were with her that day to tell her more stories because when there is a finite number, they hold more weight and importance than ever imagined before.  The words I write today,  tomorrow, and for the rest of my life, will be the stories l tell my grandchildren when the time is right. They are words inspired by my beautiful girl, Emery, written by the one she called Mom while in the throes of grief that I never could have anticipated.  

Once upon a time, your Mama…” I’ll say,  and Arlo and Muna will lean in, holding onto every word then will carry them as their own.

Words for Emery

(that I never thought I would write)

01/19/2025

As a writer, I have always found comfort and solace in words, much like other family members find in music and art.  Words have helped me make sense of the world and have given me a portal to express myself, whether I’m sharing my work with others or for my eyes only.  I’ve opened my computer countless times these past two weeks, but words fail me. Instead, when I open my computer, I find myself going through photos of Emery. I linger on the ones of her as a little girl because the more recent memories of my girl as a woman, a wife, and a mother hurt my heart too much now.  Funny stories came to mind, but I wondered if they would be appropriate for Emery’s celebration of life…a time of reverence, respect, and awe.  Then I felt Emery’s nudge…and her telling me, “Celebration, Mom, focus on the celebration part and tell the stories.”    And so I will.

My Flower Girl:

Like many children, Emery never wanted to go to bed, whether at night or during afternoon naps.  When most children her age would be put down for naps in their cribs, Emery would try to persuade me to let her nap on the couch, “mostly to keep me company.” I caved more often than I should have because I loved having her curled up next to me on the couch, pretending to sleep while I pretended to read.  One of my nighttime techniques to help her fall asleep was to sing to her.  I am not a singer, by the way.  I don’t remember how, when, or why, but the song “I Love the Flower Girl” by the Cowsills became my nightly lullaby.  When she was old enough to sing along, it became our duet, with hairbrush microphones in hand.  This hardly ensured Emery’s entrance into slumber, but it was fun, and we loved fun, so it became our routine and “our song.”  

Emery grew up loving flowers, and at an age when most of her friends didn’t know the difference between a daffodil and a daisy, she could name every one of the perennials and shrubs in my very large garden… in Latin because that’s how I taught her.  When she was in kindergarten, she started calling my garden “the garden of love.”  She decided she wanted her kindergarten teacher, Miss Lindner,  to get married there and began to make plans.  She  knew where Miss Lindner would enter the garden, under the rose trellis, of course, and where her husband-to-be would be waiting for her.  She told me we would need to call the newspaper.  I told her Miss Lindner needed a boyfriend.  She dismissed my concerns and said we needed a photographer.  “Could you be the photographer?” She asked.  I told her I’d be honored.  Miss Linder did not get married in our  “garden of love,” but we did attend her wedding two years later.  As we watched Miss Lindner walk down the aisle, we looked at each other, smiled, and nodded.  Our thoughts were on the same thing… our garden of love.  Truly, my flower girl. 

Marley:

Emery’s love of animals ran as deep as her love of plants.  When she was in kindergarten, we adopted our beloved yellow lab, Marley.  On our first visit to the vet, a female doctor came into the exam room, introduced herself, and told us she would be right back.  Emery asked me why the veterinarian was a woman.  She had opened the door to a conversation I loved having with her about how women can do the same jobs as men, but before I could finish my point, she interrupted me and said, “Oh, I know that, Mom. I was just wondering why Marley’s doctor wasn’t a dog because wouldn’t a dog understand our Marley better than a person?  I started to explain to her that a dog wouldn’t be able to tell us what Marley needed but stopped because I wanted to savor how her brain processed life through the lens of love.  Emery and I would be in that room together, curled up on a blanket next to Marley, 12 years later, when we had Marley euthanized.  She asked me why it hurt so much.  I told her because the deeper the love is,  the more painful the goodbyes are.  I told her this when her Gramps, my dad, passed in September.  I’m telling myself this now.

Not long after that, she asked me when the world turned from black and white to color because there were pictures of me and her grandparents in my photo albums that were black and white, and the photos of her and her brothers were in color.  “Was I there when it changed?  Was it amazing to see everything turn to color after it had been black and white? she asked me.  Another question I needed to savor first and explain later.  Emery saturated the colors in life in the way she saw things, and in doing so, she changed the way I looked at life. As alike as we were, I had one trait that she told me she could never understand, and that was my love of a gray day, a sad movie, a melancholy song, or a long string of rainy days. Emery wanted the sun and the saturation of colors that came with it. Emery needed the sun.

There are no words that can carry the depth and weight of the emotions and love I will always carry for Emery.  Nor should there be because feelings this deep cannot be defined by words but rather can only be felt in the depths of our souls. A part of my heart left with her because, as her Mama, I couldn’t let her go alone.

I want to end with words I wrote to Emery in November 2012 as I grappled with my emotions of letting her go to begin a life with Miles the following year.

Sometimes I look at you, and you are four years old — with chubby arms and legs, wild hair that you refuse to let anyone but you comb, and you don’t, and a twirly skirt that you enjoy keeping airborne while revealing your mom’s lackadaisical dressing style because you have no underwear on.

You are not four years old, and I am not the mama of a four-year-old, yet somehow, in my teaching you how to fly, I forgot to teach myself how to let you go.  I’m watching you fly while I desperately try to remember exactly when your feet left the ground because one day, I was carrying you, and in what seemed to be no longer than a restful pause, you were carrying yourself.  When you were handed to me in the hospital, I felt like I was holding onto a big part of my heart.  I still do.  And just as you told me when you were little and what we still say to each other every day,  I love you with my whole heart.  Really, really, for my whole life.

Soar through the skies, my beautiful Emery.

Thanksgiving 2024

Life is short.  Make it sweet.  These words were printed on a wooden block that fell off a shelf and landed inches from my feet as I filled my coffee cup at McClain’s Bakery in Kansas City.   I picked up the wooden block just as one of the employees came over with profuse apologies and returned the block to the shelf next to the coffee urns.

I took my coffee to a nearby table and opened my computer to work on some writing, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the falling block and its message.  It felt like a tap on the shoulder that I couldn’t ignore.  Life is short.  Make it sweet. It also felt like something Dad would have noticed, possibly adding that he could have made a better block with letters carved instead of painted. It’s also possible that Dad was trying to bring those words to my attention with a block that was not precariously perched but fell anyway and landed at my feet.  There have been so many incidents since Dad passed, starting with the red-tailed hawk, where his presence was undeniably felt.  I’m counting the falling block as another one.

In the past several months, I’ve experienced the highest of highs and lows that had me crumpling and wondering if I’d ever be upright again. In July, my granddaughter, Frankie, entered the world, exploding my already full heart. The next month, my sister, Robin, was diagnosed with Stage 4 pancreatic cancer, and a month later, my dad died—a timeline of the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. My cousin, sensing the profound grief and sadness I was experiencing, told me to look for the sparkles every day, especially now, as they will become more important than ever. I decided to follow her advice. During Dad’s short stay in hospice,  I sat by his bedside for several hours and let my mind weave its way through countless memories, some bringing tears to my eyes and others a good laugh.  Because the hospice nurse told me even though he might not react, he could hear me, so some of those memories I shared aloud with him. The door to Dad’s room was open, and during a quiet moment, a woman, who I didn’t know, came in, walked over to me, leaned down, and hugged me.  I was surprised, confused, and comforted.  She told me she hoped it was Ok, and I nodded, not knowing what to say; then she added, “I sat with my dad a month ago, and I know the feeling.  I recognized the look on your face when I walked by, and it looked like you needed a hug.”  I thanked her, told her she was right, and then she was gone.  It was all so fast that it took me a minute to absorb what had happened and the gift I had been given from a complete stranger.  Life is short. Make it sweet. I was grateful for my cousin’s reminder, and since then, not a day has gone by that I’ve not seen a sparkle.  The block falling at my feet was an unexpected but very welcomed sparkle.

I’ve been through the lowest of lows these past few months, but it was in those lows that I’ve been reminded of what really matters, even though it was something I knew all along. Thanksgiving is about toasting and giving thanks at a beautiful table filled with platters of food and the cranberries I insist on bringing, even though my daughter tells me nobody likes cranberries.  And just like last year, I will bring home an almost full dish of cranberries that I will eat for a few days and then throw away. Thankfulness is the incredible group of people from around the world who I met while at a writing retreat in Greece last July and who I now call my friends.  Thankfulness is the connection I made during my writing retreat for one on the Oregon Coast, inspired by the scenery and the group of writers and artists I was selected to work with.  Thankfulness was the birth of baby Frankie, who arrived days before I left for Greece and who became my priority when I got home, booking my flight to LA two days later to hold her in my arms. Thankfulness is the moment when I set down the burden of heavy anxiety I had been carrying with an exhale and a sigh of relief because the doctors said Robin’s bloodwork looked good and her cancer was asleep. Thankful is knowing Dad had an easy and peaceful passing, confirmed by the hospice nurse who, in her compassionate delivery, told me he had a perfect death — quick, painless, and peaceful.   

I’m thankful for the love my kids have given me with their emotional and physical support and for showing me through grief and sadness that family and friends are what hold us together in life more than anything else.  Family. Friends. Cousins. My Mom. We’ve all been holding each other up and, in doing so, have found our strength, our resiliency, and, thank goodness, our humor.  A comparison between poorly folded sheets in the linen closet to the flag the two soldiers ceremoniously folded at Dad’s military ceremony was some of that necessary humor.  

I’m thankful for unexpected reminders that life really is short and to make it sweet.  In a time when life has felt so difficult and I wondered what I could find to be thankful for this year, I’ve come up with a list that holds more meaning and depth than most years, which I’m calling my Thanksgiving sparkle.  

Happy Thanksgiving to anyone who reads these pages.  I hope your day is filled with unexpected sparkles with people you love and cranberries that no one likes but someone made because they love you.

Continuing Tradition with 24 Beats

Dad started what would become a tradition when he and Mom moved to their retirement home 15 years ago.  I don’t remember if it was Veterans Day, Memorial Day, or the 4th of July, but on the first patriotic holiday after moving in, Dad went to their patio and played taps.   He told me he didn’t know if anyone else could hear it (adding that most had compromised hearing, so probably not), but even so, he felt it needed to be played to honor and respect the many Veterans who had died.  His playing was noticed, and so it continued and soon became his tradition.

When our family was at Dad’s interment ceremony at the Veteran’s Cemetery in Higginsville, Missouri a few weeks ago, the ceremony began in a small chapel. I transported Dad’s ashes again, although this time in the back seat of my car as Mom was riding shotgun. When we arrived, the urn of ashes were placed on a small table in the front of the chapel with the tricorn folded flag in front of it.  Two uniformed service members unfolded the flag and with ceremonial respect and measured precision, refolded it before handing it to our mom.  A lone bugler, who was positioned outside the chapel,  played taps as the flag was being folded. I was Ok, or as Ok as one is when their father dies, until I heard the sound of taps being played.  I thought about the many patriotic holidays when Dad played taps, whether anyone could hear it or not. Today, with the urn of his ashes on the table while two uniformed servicemen refolded the flag, I realized the significance of an unknown bugler playing for a man they had never met – the same man who never let a patriotic holiday go by without playing taps on his patio for the soldiers he knew and most that he never would.  Someone was playing taps for Dad. With that realization, my tears flowed. Dad would have loved the precision of the military ceremony and the respect paid to him, but most of all, he would have loved the sound of the bugle being played in his honor and having his family present to witness.

Taps is a 24-note melancholy piece of music played by a single instrument, usually a bugle or a trumpet.  It began as a last call before lights out that was played on military bases. It eventually evolved into the familiar solemn farewell that few can hear without being emotionally touched. It is played slowly, respectively, and never with embellishments. 

I miss you, Dad, especially on days that held such deep meaning to you.  It took me hearing taps at your funeral to understand why playing the 24-note piece became not only your honor to those who lost their lives in service, but your personal obligation. Today, on Veteran’s Day, I have no doubt that someone will play it for you, in your honor.