The empty chair.

We had just been seated, deciding what was what in the stack of small, folded menus on the table, when Thomas said, “When we are out together, the three of us, there will always be an empty chair.”

I was in a restaurant with my two sons the night before Thanksgiving at a restaurant in Portland, where my daughter-in-law had snagged a hard-to-get reservation. Over the past several months, I had been at many tables in restaurants in many different cities with Thomas and Grant, but had never noticed the empty chair. Thomas’s words hit me hard in their reality, but he was right. When the three of us are together, there will always be an empty seat because tables are two-, four-, or six-tops, but never three-tops. The reminder of Emery’s absence is continual and shows up in places I never would have thought of before.

I sat down with my family for every dinner while we all stayed at the rental house in Boulder after Emery’s death. I remember during one of the first dinners, it didn’t seem like there were enough of us at the table. I had a sense of needing to wait because we weren’t all there. The one who showed up in the memorable outfit, whose small hands wore the biggest rings, who would have special teas for all of us after the meals, that she had blended to help with digestion, wasn’t there. There wasn’t an empty chair at that round table, but the emptiness was profound. I didn’t understand then that that feeling of someone missing would weave its way in and out of everyday. It’s a sensation of deep longing and searching, even though I know the reality.


The last time I had been out to dinner with all three of my children was on September 8th, 2024, the day after my Dad died, and they had flown into Kansas City from three different states We went to a nearby restaurant and were seated at a four-top table that evening. There was no empty chair. As my tears flowed with my accounts of my Dad and their grandpas’s last days, Thomas and Grant, who were seated across from me, would reach out and take my hand or my arm, and Emery, who was seated next to me, would lean in to hug me. We were whole. The seats were filled, and we supported each other in our grief. The empty chair now stands in the starkness of loss. I thought about how different it was, just the three of us in the restaurant in Portland, holding each other up emotionally because our fourth is missing. We will always be navigating the space we live in without Emery, moving on instinct, as there is no script or map for the journey we are on.

It’s a slow drip when someone dies, and reminders are ever-present. My phone auto-corrects morning to mourning. My favorites still appear on the screen in my car when I make a call. Two of the phone numbers are no longer in service, the oldest ones and the youngest: Dad and Emery. I can’t bear to remove them. I’ve been asked multiple times while at doctor appointments, “Is Emery Golson still your emergency contact?” In the early days, I simply answered yes, as no felt like too big an answer. My saying yes is now on a case-by-case basis, depending on my emotional strength that day. Sometimes, the efficiency of the person behind the desk who deletes Emery Golson and enters another name feels too insensitive, even though I haven’t told them why, and they are simply doing their job. I randomly get emails to my email address that begin with “Dear Emery.” They are junk emails, soliciting money, but I can’t bear to unsubscribe from them. I’m afraid to delete anything with Emery’s name on it. I’m holding onto every piece, every shred, every fiber of her that I can.

Empty has shown itself in so many ways this past year, besides the chair. Shortly before Mother’s Day, I told one of my sons that I was no longer a mother in Boulder, so it would be difficult to spend the holiday there. They told me that wasn’t at all true, as I was a mother everywhere. I knew they were right, but in the physical sense, I was not a mother to anyone in the town where I live. It felt similar to being asked how many children I have. I’ve never hesitated with the three, but don’t always share more unless asked; when I do, it’s still three, but I have to add that one is no longer living. It’s a hard sentence to say and a hard one to hear.

Experience has shown me the consequential difference between using adjectives and verbs with my daughter. Death as an adjective feels too final, too abrupt. “Emery is dead.” The verb “Emery died” is softer, gentler. It is what she did, and not who she is or became, and although it’s only semantics, the difference matters greatly to me.

In the early days after Emery died, Grant told me he often misspelled ‘siblings’ when writing emails to Emery and Thomas. He said that Thomas would correct him, reminding him that ‘siblings’ had one b, not two, but for some reason, he couldn’t remember. He told me he had recently written an email mentioning his siblings, and this time he paused over the word, remembering that ‘siblings’ has only one b. He told me it would be easier to remember now, since he had only one sibling. That hit me in the same way the empty chair would months later. One sibling, one empty chair. The void of that empty space is far larger than the chair or letting go of the extra b in siblings. It’s love. It’s remembering. It’s about making a shift in everything we know and finding Emery’s presence so profoundly in her absence.

A few days after Emery died, the family gathered at Miles’s house to celebrate his birthday. I hadn’t been in the house since the night Emery was taken to the hospital. As I opened the back door, the emotions of the night and seeing the EMTs carry her down the stairs on a stretcher felt like I was living the moment all over again. I had been worried about seeing her shoes at the door because Emery’s shoes were always at the back door, as they didn’t wear shoes in their home. Shoes hold an emotional weight and vulnerability, amplified after death. I knew that seeing Emery’s shoes at the door would no longer be about a momentary pause, but instead, would represent a journey that had ended; treads that would no longer move across the ground with her energy.

Thankfully, Miles had moved Emery’s shoes, but in their absence, I wondered where they were and felt an overpowering need to see them, to try them on, even though her feet were one size smaller than mine. This would become a pattern for me that still exists a year later. I don’t avoid the pain or ignore it; I want to sit with it, put it on, walk in it. Her cowboy hat, however, still hung above where her shoes would have been. I touched the rim as I walked past it, but resisted putting it on my head.

Ten months later, I’d be in Portland for the 3rd or 4th time in a year. It was the day after my dinner out with my sons, and we were all seated around the table for Thanksgiving dinner. There was no empty chair, but there was an empty spot at the end of the table directly across from where I was seated. I acknowledged the spot as we went around the table, one by one, and shared what we were thankful for, a hard task in a year that has been so painful. And yet, there seemed to be more gratitude at that table than I remember in past years. We all felt Emery’s energy at the table, shifting our emotions from grief to gratitude, from sadness to love. I’ve slowly begun to reframe the empty chair. There may be a physical vacancy, but love and gratitude have filled in the space emotionally, and I’ve become acutely aware of Emery’s presence in her absence.

The last, in a year of firsts.

I hadn’t noted the date until I went to bed. The next day would be the one-year anniversary of Emery’s celebration of life, the bookend to a year of painful firsts. I didn’t know how the anniversary would affect me, but I fell asleep with the reel of that day playing in my mind. My dreams took notice and were hard at work with my thoughts as I wove in and out of dreams about living inside a heart, with firm instructions to never leave, then transitioning to a dream with all my teeth falling out. Strangely, I was Ok with both in the dreams. I’ve since learned that teeth falling out in dreams can have many meanings, but one is ‘recent loss and grief,’ and the heart dream felt predictable. Although it had been a year since Emery’s celebration of life, the length of time feels irrelevant. To my mind and body, it was both a lifetime ago, a year ago, and yesterday, all at the same time.

The date and the memories hit me harder than I expected. I had little energy and spent most of the day sitting in the chair I always called Emery’s chair, since it was her choice when she was at my house. I would sit across from her in my front room on the small couch, covered in beautiful, but scratchy, southwestern-designed wool. Since she died, I have spent many mornings looking at the white slip-covered chair from my position on the red couch, and the emptiness seemed to be getting bigger. Today, I switched places. She had been wise in her selection. Her chair was far more comfortable.

My slow pace felt more intentional than lazy or lethargic. It was as if my speed dial had been turned to the lowest setting; still in operation, but in slow motion. I moved from the chair to the kitchen for food and water (thankfully, my teeth were still in place when I woke up), then back to the comfortable chair where I read pages of a beautiful book given to me by a dear friend, looked at photos and journals, talked with Emery, and wrote. I drank coffee from a mug I bought in Sayulita, Mexico, while on a trip with Emery, who later told me never to get rid of it, as it was her favorite. There were many things in my house that had strict instructions to never get rid of because Emery loved them, and I’ve followed those instructions. The mug is also my favorite or I likely would have given it to her.

There had been a surprise light snow the night before that hadn’t been predicted. It was enough to blanket the yard, but not enough to require shoveling. Emery loved snow, but not the cold winter weather. The dusting of snow felt like a connection to Emery. Last year on this date, it was as cold as I have ever seen it in Boulder, with temperatures in the single digits, and at least a foot of snow on the ground. When I talk to my family and friends about Emery’s celebration of life, the first thing everyone mentions is the sub-zero temps and the deep snow.

It wasn’t cold like that this year, and I decided to get out of the chair and take a walk. I hadn’t planned where I’d walk, but I wasn’t surprised where I ended up. My route took me directly past the Boulder Theatre. I stood in front of it, the marquee no longer with Emery’s name on it, but with the name of four bands I hadn’t heard of. I remembered the exact parking spot where we parked the car a year ago, and what it felt like when I caught sight of the marquee as we crossed the street and walked towards the theatre. Even though we had decided on the words a few days earlier, to see them for the first time, on the marquee of the Boulder Theatre, took my breath away. I sobbed at the sight of Emery’s name in a place I never would have imagined.

EMERY JANE

Our Child of the Wild Blue Yonder

Child of the Wild Blue Yonder was Emery and her Dad’s song. It became the soundtrack to her childhood, often playing in the background as Emery grew up. She didn’t hesitate when choosing her first dance with her Dad at her wedding. I had heard the song hundreds of times, but when I played it recently, the words felt personal, in an auspicious way, as if written for her. These words, in particular, resonated with me.

She’s a child of the wild blue yonder
Flying out of here
She’s a child of the wild blue yonder
Born in an angel’s wing

She can’t help her laughing
She can’t stop your crying days
Sometimes it hurts to be having
To hold on to a love that surely must fly away.

“To hold on to a love that surely must fly away” brought me to a standstill; words that carried a weight I hadn’t felt before.

It was bitterly cold that morning, or I would have stood in front of the marquee longer, my head tilted up to my daughter’s name in a place I never thought I’d see her name, nor in the context I was seeing it. I had to smile at how perfect the location had been, and although Emery was modest, I think she would have loved that her name shared space with The Eagles, The Dave Matthews Band, Johnny Cash, Jerry Garcia, Willy Nelson, Bonnie Raitt, among others, and now Emery Jane.

That evening, at a dinner Emery’s Dad had arranged for the family, several people were talking about how good the food had been. My response was, “There was food?” I didn’t remember food. What I do remember is people bringing me bottles of water and cups of tea. I remember being seated in the front row, before the program, with Grant on one side of me and Thomas on the other, and my daughter-in-laws next to them. I was cold and shaking, and I whispered to Grant that I didn’t think I would be able to speak. I had my words written down, and he told me not to worry that he’d read my words if I couldn’t. I remember my daughter-in-law, Katie, reaching around Grant and gently patting my back. Not seen, but felt, a memory that was more important than a buffet table of food. It reminded me of being at Dad’s military funeral, with just the family three months earlier. As two members of the honor guard folded the flag while a third played taps, I reached over and put my arm around my sister, Robin. Emery’s small hand pushed a Kleenex into the space between Robin and me. She saw me lean into my sister, my shoulders quivering. She knew.

The heart has a lot to say about memories: holding onto the tiniest details while letting go of others, choices that tend to make sense later. I’ve forgotten a lot of the details about Emery’s celebration of life, such as the food, but I have held onto what was important: the touches, the hugs, the compassion.

The day before, we hosted family and friends at my house who had flown in for Emery’s celebration of life. I remember one of my dear friends from the neighborhood where Thomas, Grant, and Emery grew up telling me they would all be with me as I spoke the next day. “Feel our hands on your back as you speak, like this,” he said as he gently put his hand on my back. The next day, I felt Phil’s hand, along with the hands of all my dear friends from the neighborhood, on my back as I spoke, giving me the confidence and a steady voice through their love.

Grant stood next to me as I took the podium, and I felt Emery on the other side. I don’t like public speaking and like it even less when the words are ones I’ve written, but that morning was different. I felt calm, slow, and intentional with my words, feeling them as they left me and moved into the theatre space in front of me. I was comfortable and relaxed, as if Emery was whispering to me, “You’ve got this, Mom. I’m so proud of you.” I’ve never felt like that before when reading my writing in front of a group, but I’ve also not read words that had such deep significance. Although there were hundreds of people in front of me, I spoke to one person. My last gift to my girl.

I ended my day by taking a bath. I had bath salts from a collection of Emery’s things from her bathroom that I used sparingly, as I don’t want to use them up. As I lay in the bathtub, I looked up at the photo Emery gave me for Christmas two years ago. It was two sets of legs, from the knees down, submerged in pale, blue-green water. One of the sets of legs was smaller, and Emery told me it reminded her of us, mother and daughter, our legs dangling in a swimming pool. I told her a few days later that it was hanging on the wall in front of my bathtub so I could enjoy it every time I took a bath. She told me she couldn’t wait to see it in person.

That in-person never happened. A small, forgotten gesture that loomed large while I looked at the four legs, dangling in the water. As I looked deeper into the photograph, I saw something I hadn’t noticed before, as it was blurred by the water. The smaller hand reached out to the larger, both dangling just below the surface of the water. A gesture that touched me, and I wanted to reach out and grab that small hand with reassurance that everything would be Ok, but I couldn’t.

Unexpected Gifts


I’ve written a lot about the pain that grief has brought into my life since Emery’s death, but that is only one side of the story. Grief, whom I have personified into a skinny woman in a Pink Floyd T-shirt named Wanda (because I tend to name things that stick around in my life), has also brought unexpected gifts. My sons and I have spoken often about grief, a subject we have come to understand on a much deeper and personal level this year. We all agree that grief has changed who we are at our core and deepened our connections in life. We are moving at a slower pace, with far more awareness, and are discerning in where we put our energy. This came to light for me while I was in a shop in Kansas City a few days before Christmas with my sister, Susan. We had just been to a local bookstore, and while walking to my car, we passed the boutique where Emery often shopped when she was in Kansas City.  Because I’m now drawn to anything that was in Emery’s history, I wanted to go in. A display of a familiar perfume caught my eye, and while I was looking at the small bottles, a woman who worked there asked if she could help me find something.

I told her yes, and asked if they carried a particular scent I liked in the body lotion. A year ago, I hadn’t heard of Maison 4, but I easily recognized the scent as it was what Emery wore. After she died, two of her friends and I cleaned out her bathroom drawers, a task that was both an honor and one of the most difficult, given its intimacy. I took home several items that day, my favorites being the bottles of Emery’s scent and I’ve rolled it onto my wrist every morning since. The sales woman said she would check the storeroom to see if they had what I was looking for. While she was gone, I wandered around the shop, envisioning Emery pulling things out for me to try on. I’d often respond with a hard no, but she’d insist, adding that trying something totally unexpected would be fun, and I should at least give it a try. She was usually right. Emery was fun to shop with, given her ongoing motivation to push me out of my comfort zone.

When the woman returned, she had two bottles of the body lotion and said,
“I have no idea who told me about this scent, but I just love it!”
I hesitated. It was a moment that felt like a tap on the shoulder, and rather than move through it, I stopped. I decided to tell her my story. That doesn’t always happen, but she was kind, and it felt right.
“I love it too. My daughter wore the scent.”
She smiled while she put my items on the counter.
“So your daughter has good taste!”
“Yes, she did. She had very good taste.” I paused, then continued.

“She died last January, and I learned about the scent when I went through her things. Although I didn’t know the name, I was familiar with it because it was her scent.” I didn’t feel done. I added, “She died from complications from the flu and pneumonia. She was 34, with two young children.”

It’s not easy to say those words, and I know it’s not easy for people to hear them. I felt like I had sucked the oxygen out of the small store, knowing that she wouldn’t know how to respond, because who would? She did a deep inhale, shook her head, and said,
“I don’t know what to say. I’m so terribly sorry.”
I nodded and thanked her.

As I was getting ready to pay, I added another bottle of the lotion to the collection on the counter. She asked me if I was in the computer, and I told her I didn’t think so, but she could check. I gave her my name, but she didn’t find me in their system. Then, she said something I didn’t expect.
“What was your daughter’s name?”
“Emery Golson.” She looked at the screen in front of her and smiled, “Well, she’s made 26 purchases here!”

I had to laugh. 26 purchases, and my daughter lived in another state. Maybe that included online shopping. Then she said, “She had 80 points, and I’d like to give them to you. It’s worth $80.” I was touched by her gesture and told her I’d be honored to have my daughter’s points. Susan, who was standing next to me, said, “I think Emery just gave you a Christmas gift.”

I hadn’t thought of it that way, but she was right, making my purchase even more special. I ended up giving one of the bottles of lotion to a dear friend of Emery’s, and when she thanked me, I told her the story and said it was from Emery. She was as touched as I had been that day in the store.

As I was getting ready to leave, the woman helping me (I’m sorry that I never got her name, as she was someone I won’t forget) told me that sharing my story had made her day, and she was so happy to be able to offer what she did in response to my loss and grief. And that made my day.

Sometimes you just know. It would have been just as easy not mention how I came to love the scent or that it was from my daughter who had recently passed. I thought about what my sons and I had talked about so often, about how grief had us all slowing down, living in the moment, and making unlikely connections in the process. Unexpected kindness had come with a gift I hadn’t expected because of a nudge for me to share Emery’s story.

We celebrated Christmas as a family on the 23rd of December in Kansas City, and since I didn’t have plans, I decided to drive back to Boulder on Christmas. It was the first Christmas Day that I hadn’t been with family, and driving across Kansas was a strange way to spend the day, but it felt right. The good news was that there was little to no traffic, but the bad news was that my food and coffee options were relegated to what the gas stations had to offer.

Midway through Kansas, the fog began to roll in, reducing visibility to less than a car length. My normally boring drive from Boulder to Kansas City, which I had driven countless times, had been bookended with high winds on one end and thick fog on the other. Unable to see the car in front of me, my car automatically braked to maintain the distance. My arm instinctively reached out to protect my invisible shotgun passenger, a reflex every mother or person around children understands. And in those few seconds, I thought back to the many drives Emery and I had made across Kansas, Colorado, and New Mexico, with me in the driver’s seat, and Emery seated shotgun. In time, a car seat and two years later, another would be added to our trips. Maybe it was the fog, or maybe it was the scent of Maison 4 that filled my car, or perhaps my instinct to protect my passenger with the sudden braking, but I felt like Emery was with me.

Her presence in the car, in her usual seat, was strong. It had been a very difficult and sad Christmas season for me, ending with a foggy drive west on Christmas Day, and I needed her more than ever. And with the scent of her perfume that she gifted me in the store, she showed up.

2025 to 2026

Finally, the calendar page turned. I was ready to leave 2025 behind, but sadly, the pain and grief that began in January 2025 are tagging along. Social media is reminding me that now is the time to start anew, set my goals for the coming year, and let go of what didn’t work for me in 2025. I wish it were that simple. The pain of my daughter’s death wasn’t gone with the turning of a calendar page, nor was it something I could let go of. It will go with me into 2026, 2027, and 20-forever.

I spent the New Year’s holiday with someone whom I’ve called my 3rd sister since I was barely old enough to drive, and now, over 5 1/2 decades later, I still do. Susie is comfort for me, and comfort was what I needed. She and her husband, Michel, were my soft spot to land as 2025 rolled over into 2026, while we dined on lobster tails and sipped champagne at midnight.
As we were saying our goodbyes at the curb at the Providence, Rhode Island, airport, Susie said,
“You have peanut butter on your scarf.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s like a big bib.”
That kind of friendship. That kind of comfort. Susie knows me well. I rearranged the scarf so the peanut butter didn’t show.
When I checked in, the woman behind the counter asked, “Is Portland your final destination?”
“Yes.”
“But you live in Colorado?” I had just given her my driver’s license.
“Yes.”
“OK. I just wanted to confirm, as I didn’t want you to end up somewhere you hadn’t planned on today.”
I appreciated her efficiency. Yes, I was leaving Providence, Rhode Island, for Portland, Oregon, with a layover in Atlanta, but I live in Colorado. It was my 28th flight in what has become my year of escape. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like I live in Colorado despite what my driver’s license says.

As I waited at the gate, my mind wouldn’t leave me alone. It was January 2nd, 2026, but I kept returning to January 2nd, 2025, as I made time adjustments from East Coast to Mountain time. Miles and I were with Emery in the ICU of Foothills Hospital in Boulder. We hadn’t left her side since her arrival the evening before. The oxygen machine was loud, and the monitors beeped, while her nurse took note of the numbers. Fear had started to settle in. We were both shivering, I’m guessing because we were in shock, and neither of us had taken off our coats all night. The only time I had slipped out of her room was to call my two sons and my sisters; difficult calls to make, as there was little positive I could tell them. When I returned to the room, she was intubated and sedated. My Dad, at age 95, had been intubated and lived another 18 months afterwards. I reminded Miles about Dad and held onto that historic thread of hope. I wouldn’t let myself go to the part where I might not see her conscious again. Ever.

Time moved forward and backward. It’s 2025. The doctors are looking for an open bed in Denver because Emery needs an ECMO procedure. I had never heard of ECMO, but thankfully didn’t Google it. They were getting the helicopter ready and said it would take longer than I had thought. Did they say one hour, or was it two? I brought the time back to Eastern time, two hours later, by which time the helicopter had left. It felt easier. I drink bad coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts while I wait at gate 16.

It’s 10:40 mountain time, still January 2nd, and I’m driving to St. Joseph Hospital in Denver, where Emery was being transported. I’m not sure how safe it was for me to drive, as I’m guessing I was in shock, but safety is not what comes to mind in an emergency. You react. You go. You let momentum and fear move you forward with little regard to safety. I watched overhead as I drove down I-25 for the helicopter carrying my daughter. I wasn’t sure whether seeing it would offer comfort or fear. I didn’t see it or hear it. I wondered whether Emery had ever been in a helicopter, but didn’t think she had. She will have a good story to tell, I thought. I hoped.

My wait at the gate has now moved to Atlanta, where I wait for my flight to Portland while keeping an eye out for my family, who, ironically and magically, were on the same flight to Portland, on their return from Florida. I watched two young children enthusiastically play tag around the banks of chairs, filled with passengers. The passengers were less than enthused with their game, but I enjoyed the distraction. When my granddaughters, ages 6 and 3, saw me sitting at their gate, it made for a lot of confusion and excitement. The small comforts bring the biggest joy these days.

I’m still escaping, but flying doesn’t offer the same ease that a car trip does for me, as the airlines control my schedule, not me. Still, there is comfort in the movement from one location to another, never landing long in any one place. I like the distraction. I’m afraid to stop anywhere for too long. Maybe I’m trying to outrun the pain. The hands of the clock. The pages of the calendar. They continually nudge me… as if I could ever forget…

I boarded the plane, while trying to find balance between then and now, my emotions taking center stage on my face. The flight attendant made eye contact with me and tilted her head slightly in that I’m-so sorry kind of way. I had wondered, while sitting at gate 10, how many people waiting had lost someone they loved in the past year. How many of them had lost a child? Grief shows up in people’s eyes, even without the tears. It looks different than sadness… deeper, more rooted, and with a sense of permanence.

During the last hour of the five-hour flight, I put on my headphones and listened to Layla on repeat because I love the song’s crescendo of emotion, and although I couldn’t stop crying, it felt like what I needed.

Wrapped up in my shawl, part warmth, part snuggly, I sobbed in the dark cabin of the plane as if experiencing the trauma for the first time. There is remembering, and then there is reliving when your body goes through the physicality of experiencing the trauma, as if for the first time. I was reliving. I was back in 2025, on January 2nd, at the Denver Hyatt, waiting for my boys, who were flying in from LA and Portland. I was exhausted, having not slept for over 48 hours, but couldn’t sleep as I was so anxious to see them, to hug them, and have them hug me. I felt like I was losing Emery and couldn’t lose her alone. We had hope. We had to have hope, but I think Thomas and Grant were also trying to tamp down the fear of what might happen. I was drowning and trying hard to keep my head above water, where I could breathe. I heard the doctor’s discouraging update on Emery’s condition, his words punctuated with “but she’s young…”. And that is where I stayed… but she’s young…for as long as I could. I wondered how many years it would be before the events from January 2nd to January 4th became memories I could think about without having to relive them. Ever?

I looked out the airplane window and watched the glow of the full moon hanging in the sky as if it had been left behind. It brought back the memory of Emery telling me it made her happy that I would stop to take in the moon before anything else when I walked outside. I felt like the full moon through my small airplane window was her nudge to me to let the timelines go, because, regardless of where I was, 11:38 a.m. Mountain Time on January 4th would still come. A full moon in a dark sky at 30,000 feet wouldn’t. Both of my sons were on flights that evening—one to Portland with his family and me, and one to LA with his family. I don’t know if they looked out their airplane windows and saw what I saw, but we were all in the same dark sky, save for the glow of the full moon.

I watched the moon, as I always do, and felt Emery’s smile with my reaction to it, as she always did.

365 Days

One year. 365 days. Twelve months of not feeling well, emotionally or physically. Twelve months of missing my girl. On Emery’s birthday, a friend, who has gone before me on this horrific journey, told me, “The scab will continue to get thicker over your heart. Anything can pick at it…important events, special days, a memory. And one day, you will be able to take really deep breaths and not feel the stabbing pain. I promise. It gets better. Not ever gone, but livable.” I’m not to the better, but livable part yet, and I don’t think my scab has formed. Another friend who speaks from experience told me, “A patch will appear in time. It will be careworn from sorrow, love, and loss, but in time, it will be there.” I hold these words close to my heart.

I’ve read or listened to countless books on grief, taking what I needed and leaving the rest. I realized that in the essays that I’ve written for the past year, I’m writing my own manual of grief while my care-worn patch of healing is being woven, one thread, one word, one emotion at a time. I’ve also learned that my grief is not a tunnel that I will make my way through, with solace waiting for me on the other side. Instead, it’s a cave. Sometimes light comes into the opening, and other times it’s dark. I’m learning to navigate in the dark, but it’s a difficult, unsure journey. Emery’s Dad, Charlie, and I were with her for her first breath and 34 years later, for her last, witnesses to the entirety of her life journey and its duality of joy and sorrow, beginning and end. It’s the circle of life, with the beginning touching the end, yet nothing about it feels complete or connected to me.

My New Year’s tradition of writing down my highs and lows of the past year, followed by my goals and dreams for the following year, didn’t happen. My journal, with a pen poised next to it in anticipation, remained on my desk until mid-summer, the pages still blank. I finally closed it in July and tucked it in a drawer. Instead of year-end journaling, I drove to my daughter’s house in a panic after my son-in-law, Miles, called to say 911 had been called. Life stopped. Calendar pages weren’t turned. December became February. We wanted to skip January, and in many ways we did, as we huddled together as a family in a rental house in Boulder, blocks from my house. My tears woke me up in the middle of the night in that rental house, with my desperate need to hug Emery, because we always hugged before we parted. During my waking hours, which seemed few, I tried to find the words I would say at my daughter’s celebration of life, insisting to my sons that I couldn’t do it, and yet I did.

I am still here, but it’s hard to find me some days. In the early days at the rental house, I often woke up with my cashmere scarf tangled in my arms, like a child’s blankie. I didn’t go to bed with it, but somehow I would find it in the night. My body and soul knew what I needed and were helping me with a gray cashmere shawl that offered the same kind of comfort as a child’s stuffed animal.

There is a hole in the fabric of my life… and maybe, as my friend told me, a patch will form, but the hole will always be there. I became a different person on January 4th. My life has been split into the biggest before and after I have ever known, and I’m trying to figure out who I am in this after part, as there are many days when I don’t recognize myself.

Emery became my teacher, roommate, and confidant after my divorce. The child became the teacher. She taught me to believe in myself, to stay in the moment, to find joy in the mundane, and to see the world with an open heart and mind. So much of me is better because of Emery, and so much of me is lost with her death. Life hides in landmines. It’s relentless and tiring, yet beautiful in the sparkles that love has left in its wake.

A mother saying a final goodbye to her child is not what we are ever meant to do, and yet I’ve been saying goodbye for a year. Emery and I often talked about what my later years would look like. She reassured me that she would keep my chin whisker-free and my clothes and hair as hip as I’d allow, most likely, hipper. We didn’t know where that “ending place” would be, but we always knew we’d be close to each other, because I was her mother, and she wanted to take care of me. Emery got to spend her entire life with me. I wish I could say the same of her, but I spared her the pain of saying goodbye to me. It was my last gift to my daughter.

I don’t know if my grief will become easier to carry with the strength I develop in time, or if it will be something I will continually need to set down on days when I feel incapable of doing much more than getting dressed and feeding myself, sometimes neither being done very well. But I know what Emery would tell me… be gentle with yourself, Mom. And so I am. Or I’m trying. Wrapped in the memories that began with a positive pregnancy test to last January 4th, I continue to look for the light in the cave, trying my best to follow her words…be gentle with yourself, Mom. She is everywhere, and she’s nowhere.

My drives from Boulder to Kansas City and back for Christmas this year were challenging, with high winds on the way there and dense fog on the way home. I remembered telling Emery, who was a timid driver when she left for college, to watch for car lights ahead of her and follow them, as the light would keep her on her path. I didn’t realize until driving back to Boulder, with fog so dense I couldn’t see the lights in front of me, that I was trying to do just as I had instructed Emery… follow the lights, as they will keep you on the path. I slowed to a crawl and eventually saw car lights ahead that I followed. I didn’t rush. I didn’t panic. I just kept searching until I found something to follow. I’m no longer in my car, but I’m still searching for a light to follow. Something that will keep me on the path.

I miss you, my darling girl, and this journey I’ve been forced to endure is my hardest one yet. I will continue to search for the strength you saw in me. My deep grief, whom I’ve named Wanda, is my love for you, Emery, with no place to go. I look for you everywhere, and some days, when I need you the most, you’re a rainbow in the sky, a favorite song of yours playing unexpectedly, or a photo of you popping up on my phone. You were even a heart-shaped flock of birds flying overhead immediately after I blew out the candle on my 70th birthday cake at Lake Tahoe with your two brothers. You are everywhere and nowhere.

When Emery was 3, I thought I had lost her. It is a story I’ve told very few, perhaps because of the shame I felt as a mother almost losing her child. We had been shopping at the mall, and as I was paying, I moved towards a nearby rack of clothing next to me as something caught my eye. Emery must have looked up at that very moment, didn’t see me, and panicked. In an instant, she was gone. I told the store manager in a panic, and the employees quickly searched the dressing rooms, then closed the store and made the most dreaded announcement any mother could ever hear…We have a lost child. We pulled the clothing to the side on the carousels, looking for hiding spots she may have found, but didn’t see her. I was overwhelmed with panic and fear, barely able to breathe, while trying to think of what I was supposed to do next.

I stepped outside the store, thinking maybe she had wandered into the mall, and saw a woman holding Emery’s hand walking towards the store. I ran to her, picked her up, held her close to me, and sobbed. The woman, who happened to be a kindergarten teacher, said she saw Emery walking by herself. When she asked her where she was going, Emery told her she was looking for her Mom. The woman asked Emery where they had been shopping, and Emery responded confidently, “The Gap.” Thankfully, my girl knew her stores. I have never felt so afraid or so relieved to be reunited.

I often dream I’m searching for Emery. A kind woman holding her hand does not bring her to me, nor do I check the dressing rooms or the clothes carousels, but I still search. My mind and my heart, even after a year, can’t understand how she could be here one day, then gone forever.

Emery’s still gone. I’m still here.

Strength. A new definition.

I looked away while the nurse put my IV in because I can never watch needles go into my arm. It was September of 2023, and I was getting a new left knee. My two sisters and my daughter were with me, seated together on a small couch in the pre-op room, providing moral support; my line-up of love. I was scared, and they knew it, because I couldn’t hide anything from them. They know me as well as I know myself. Emery told me I’d be OK, and I knew I would, but it was what she said next that stuck with me.


“You’re the strongest person I know.”


When I felt afraid in the hospital room later that night, those words — you are the strongest person I know, echoed in my mind and gave me comfort.

I don’t know why I returned to an essay I wrote in September 2023; I don’t usually reread my essays. But last night I did, and that’s when I found the words I think I was meant to see. You’re the strongest person I know.

Several days later, after my sister-care team had left, Emery would come over at least once a day to tidy up my house, remake my couch bed, and bring bone broth for me to drink, because if there was ever any healing to be done, Emery was always at the ready with bone broth. On one of her visits, she stood behind the couch where I was seated and began gently braiding my hair as we both listened to my occupational therapist talk about self-care. It took me back to the days when I would French-braid Emery’s hair, but never with the same success she had when she did it herself. Emery could French-braid her hair like a pro at a very young age and was totally self-taught. I thought about that moment later that evening, while working through pain. Emery braided my hair.

Love can be quiet and unexpected, and sometimes it can be unwashed hair being lovingly arranged into a braid.

A nurse at St. Joseph Hospital braided Emery’s hair. When Emery had arrived by helicopter two days earlier, her hair had been pulled back by the ICU nurse using the end of a surgical glove as an elastic. She had been intubated, and her hair was pulled away from her face to keep it out of the way. Two days later, the messy ponytail had been replaced by a neatly formed braid. It was the first thing I noticed when I entered her room. I asked the doctor about it, and she told me the nurse had braided it. It was my family’s last day with Emery; the day we gathered at her bedside to say goodbye. The intimate gesture of braiding my girl’s hair touched me deeply, and my thoughts went back to the day she had braided my hair and the intimacy of that gesture. Miles told me later that he had the nurse cut the braid off, and he was saving it for me. I had forgotten about the braid, but really, I didn’t, but thought maybe it was too hard for Miles to give up, so I let it go. The day before they moved to Costa Rica, I saw the braid curled up in a small bowl next to some photos of Emery, a small dish holding her rings, some stones that held significance, and a candle. Miles apologized for not giving me the braid yet, then told me it had become part of Muna’s morning routine. She’d sit at the table and look at the photos of her Mama, while holding the braid up to her face to take in her Mama’s scent. I told him the braid needed to go to Costa Rica with them. Muna needed it more.




I remember the comfort of holding Emery’s braid in my hand while I tried to tell her goodbye on the morning of January 4th, but couldn’t. I didn’t have the strength to tell her goodbye, even though I say it over and over again to her now.

I recently read that when a woman is pregnant, some of her baby’s cells enter her bloodstream and remain in her body for many years. These tiny cells don’t just stay there; they help heal the mother if she is injured, sometimes repairing her heart or other organs. Could Emery be the one who ultimately will help heal my heart? Will the cells left behind when I gave birth to her help repair the hole in my heart, in my life, that her death left in its wake?

I remember before my knee replacement, Emery reaching down to hug me before the nurse wheeled me to the operating room. It felt backwards, like I should be taking care of her, but the roles were starting to reverse. How many times did I tell Emery that I was awed by her strength over the course of her short 34 years? The most emphatic was when she excitedly walked through the back door, introducing an almost 9-pound baby girl they named Muna, just hours after giving birth. My daughter was five feet two. That was some serious strength.

I’m trying, my darling girl, to hold onto that strength you knew I had, and somewhere, deep down, I know you’re right, but strength doesn’t look like I thought it would almost a year ago. Strength, some days, is setting a goal to take a twenty-minute walk. Grief is a heavy load to carry, and there are days when a twenty-minute walk feels like a two-hour uphill slog. Strength is opening the box of memories, even though I know it will make me cry. It’s saying Emery’s name out loud to let people know it’s only okay to talk about her. My strength today is lining up the words to articulate emotions I never thought I’d share, because holding them in is too difficult. It is crying unapologetically, even with the discomfort of those around me, because that’s what my heart needs to do, and it is my heart that I listen to first.

At a time when I’m looking for the strongest person my daughter knew, I have found her in unexpected places.

Holding my daughter’s hair, beautifully braided by her nurse, moments before the machines that were keeping her alive were turned off, took strength I didn’t know I had. Everything else in my life in this early time of grief is just survival. And that is strong enough.

Christmas anticipation…

Dad, holding court with the family on Christmas, as Dad so often did, 2023

Emery and Thomas, Christmas, 2024

My thoughts on Christmas this year are to get through it.  Get through the holiday that I usually look forward to, starting on the day after Thanksgiving, when I haul the red and green boxes in from the garage while trying to remember what goes where. There is always a sense of relief when the empty ornament and decor boxes are back in the garage, the task completed, and for the next month or so, my house is transformed.  The joy.  A dark room at night with a lit tree.  I love Christmas and have decorated for the holiday since my first apartment, when I was in college. I’m not looking forward to Christmas or the ten days that follow. I didn’t haul the boxes out of the garage or put up a tree this year. I want it to be over, and it hasn’t even begun. On the heels of Christmas is New Year’s, when the nightmare I’ve been living for almost a year began. I have a lot of dates coming up that I need to get through.

A few weeks ago, I went to get a Christmas tree with my son, Thomas, and his family while I was in Portland.  While I was watching the employee tie the tree onto the top of the car, a particular memory came to mind; one I hadn’t anticipated, nor was I ready for it.  I held back my sobs, trying my best to participate with enthusiasm in what should have been a fun outing with Thomas and his family. I recalled the first Christmas in the house that my family now refers to as the divorce house. It came with its challenges, starting with the Christmas tree.  Picking out the tree had always been something we did as a family, whether it was cutting one down or buying one in a lot. I knew it wouldn’t have the same festive feel that year as it had in the past; I just wanted a tree: no fanfare, no hot chocolate and carolers, just a tree. Emery and I had been at Home Depot and decided, for efficiency, to get our tree there.  It was bitterly cold, and we had had a day of snow and ice, so the tree was chosen quickly, without comparing it to other trees that might have had a better shape. I wanted to check the chore off the list and get out of the cold.  After I paid for the tree, I asked the cashier where I should park so the tree could be secured to my car.  

“We don’t do that,” the cashier told me. “For insurance reasons. The customer is responsible for attaching the tree themselves.”
“Me? You mean I was supposed to bring rope?”
“Well, I suppose we could give you some rope.”
I was waiting for the “but maybe we can make an acceptation for you and is this your daughter?”

It didn’t come. She wasn’t going to help this newly single woman and her daughter in Christmas tree distress.  It was close to closing time, and I could sense her anticipation of clocking out and going home. 

The tree was too big to fit in the car, but Emery and I dragged it there, not exactly knowing what we would do with it once we got there. Luckily for both of us, we saw an employee who looked to be high school-aged, standing around, trying to look busy. I flagged him down and begged him to help us.  He was quick to say he couldn’t and started in on the insurance issues. I told him I’d tip him.   A lot.  I had no idea what that meant, but it got him moving, but not before he looked around to see if anyone was watching.  He told me he’d be right back with some rope.  And for twenty dollars, or maybe it was more, I don’t remember, he secured the tree while Emery and I waited inside the warm car.  The young man had no idea of the heroic gesture he had just made, and I have thought about him every year since, when buying my tree. The following year, I started the tradition of going to the places with the carolers, hot chocolate, and men who would load your tree and wish you a Merry Christmas when they were done.

Once home, Emery and I dragged the tree inside, only to realize that the back half of it was covered in ice.  Why hadn’t we noticed the ice when we selected the tree? Or when it was being secured to the car? Perhaps because Emery and I were warming up in the car, likely listening to Celine Dion’s Christmas CD, while the ice-laden tree was being tied on.  This realization wouldn’t come until the tree was in the living room, melting on the new hardwood floors.  I looked at Emery, and we both shrugged and shook our heads, not sure whether we should laugh or cry.

“Beach towels?” Emery asked.
“Yeah, beach towels, because we can’t put it in the garage because it’s too cold out there and the ice will never melt.”

And so, with a pile of beach towels circling the tree like a tree skirt to absorb the melting ice, we set the mess aside, roasted Brussel sprouts, and settled in for the Gilmore Girls because that’s what we often did in the evening.  The tree eventually melted and was decorated, and life moved on. A few weeks later, after all the presents had been opened, I found a wooden crate containing three bottles of barbecue sauce that looked like it had been hidden under the tree. I asked my family and the workers who were still finishing up some projects in my house about the crate, but no one knew where it had come from. Someone, I don’t know who, gave me an untagged gift of spicy kindness that Christmas, and I still wonder who it was. Because I’m not a big BBQ sauce fan, I gave the sauce trio away, but kept the heartwarming feeling of someone’s quiet generosity.

Christmas, 2024, was the last time I had a face-to-face conversation with Emery.  The next day, she was struggling with the flu, along with the rest of her family.  I went to her house a few times to bring food, but she insisted I stay away as she was afraid I’d catch what they were all struggling with. The first thing she said to me at our gathering at Mom’s retirement place on Christmas evening was,

“No one told me I looked prettier than a hundred-dollar bill, Mom.”
“No one told me either, sweetheart.”

My Dad had three girls, two granddaughters, and one wife. He loved complimenting his girls, and from a very young age, whether or not we deserved it, Dad’s way of telling us we looked nice was to say we looked “prettier than a 100-dollar bill!” The irony being, I doubt Dad had seen many hundred-dollar bills in his lifetime; still, it was his gold standard, and his compliments were always appreciated.  It was our first Christmas without Dad—our first Christmas of not being compared to a hundred-dollar bill. Then Emery told me that she had had a dream about Gramps the night before.
“He came to me in my dream, and I told him I felt bad because Christmas was the next day, and I hadn’t bought any gifts. He told me I had all the gifts I needed. I looked down and saw I was wearing a red coat with big pockets. He told me to look in the pockets, and I’d find everything I needed. And he was right, Mom, everything was in the pockets of the coat.”

I’ve thought about the dream and the red coat with everything she needed in the pockets. Emery often had relatives who had passed come to her in dreams, so this wasn’t unusual, but I can’t help but think Dad may have really been with her.  Ten days later, I think it was my Dad, her Gramps, who helped her cross over. Emery’s dream about Dad feels like a gift to me now, given that it was our last conversation of significance. It was honest and weighty, with an almost poetic quality.

Before we said our goodbyes at Mom’s, I pulled Emery aside and said,
“I think you look prettier than a hundred-dollar bill, Emery.”
She smiled and said,
“You do too, Mom.”
I knew she was missing her Gramps, and corny as it was, we both missed being compared to a hundred-dollar bill.

Thanks for taking care of my girl, Dad.  She really was as pretty as a hundred-dollar bill and even prettier on Christmas

Despite the joy and the beauty of twinkling lights, December has become a very heavy month for me. One day, one holiday, one anniversary at a time. I’m going slow.

The Comfort of a Road Trip

Somewhere in Wyoming or Idaho or Utah.. en route to Oregon.

Somewhere between Boulder, Colorado, and Portland, Oregon, I began to understand why I love road trips, or, at this place in my life, why I need road trips. When I’m on the road, the space I’m in feels comforting to me; no longer the place where I came from, and not yet the place where I’m going. I’m nowhere. I’m in the liminal space of having left but not yet arrived. This threshold of uncertainty dawned on me somewhere in Idaho. Or was it Utah? I’m sure it wasn’t Wyoming because there were trees, and from my spot on I-80, Wyoming doesn’t look like it has any trees. I had just passed the exit for the town of Emery. Somewhere in Idaho, or maybe even Utah, there is a town named Emery. Several miles after passing the exit, I thought about turning around and going to Emery, but then I realized it was just another small town, and even though it held her name, I wouldn’t find her there.

This was my third time making the trip from Boulder to Portland, my 6th if you count my leaving and return trip as two. 1,200 miles each way, which amounts to two audiobooks, one night in Twin Falls, Idaho, each way, one small cooler, and a bag of snacks, plus unlimited stops for bathroom breaks, photos, and to purchase snacks because the ones I packed had lost their appeal. By the end of the year, I will have made 16th road trips, traveling to Kansas City, Los Angeles, and Portland from Boulder. I recently went to Massachusetts to see my sister, Susan, and my first thought was to drive. My service tech at my Toyota dealership asked me the last time I was in if I was now in the trucking business, given the miles I was putting on my car. I acted surprised and said, “Oh, really? Is it more than average?” “Yes. By a lot. I just hope you’re going to good places!”
I am because any place where my family is has become a good place (I’m lucky that they all happen to live in places I’d consider good, regardless of circumstances, though). I am escaping. I know that. By the end of the year, I will have been gone 227 days, away from Boulder to places that feel safer and gentler on my heart.

On the first day of my recent two-day drive to Portland, my route took me past the land several miles north of Fort Collins, where Emery and Miles built a small house on several acres. It was their piece of heaven, and it was beautiful, but 20 minutes from town, it became a thing after they had a baby, and after a few years, they moved to Boulder. The last two times I drove this route, I came to the road to their old house, slowed down, but kept going, and that was the right decision at the time. This time, however, I turned onto the aptly named Gratitude Lane and followed it to the top of the hill, where their small house came into view. Aware of privacy issues and the possibility of no-trespassing signs that I may not have seen, I chose not to venture any further, yet still had a full view of the house, the goat pen, and the beautiful land surrounding it. My mind traveled back to my many visits, where I’d stay in a small bedroom on the garage level. When Arlo was several months old, we’d both wake up early, and I’d get him out of his crib and hold him while we watched herds of deer cross the land. I’d tell Arlo stories and share plans I had with him for hikes we’d do together and places we could go. I remember one of those mornings, turning around to see Emery behind us, watching and smiling. The photo she took that morning remains one of my favorites.

I sat in my car, enveloped in the memories, and sobbed. Then, I did what I always do, and tucked the memory back into my heart where I had retrieved it, wiped my eyes, turned my car around, and left. I knew I’d pass the property again on my return trip, because that’s how you get from Boulder to Wyoming, then onto Idaho, Utah, and Oregon. I know that every time I pass the street sign for Gratitude Lane, my heart will feel heavy, and tears will fall, but the feeling of love will overpower the sadness. I’ve read that grief is love with nowhere to go. I think it’s more complex than that, but I love that the two always seem to be working in tandem.

I decided to treat myself to a nice dinner, or at least one that was not served in a bag, once I got to Twin Falls, Idaho, for the night. It was chilly out, but when I saw a fire pit on the patio of a promising-looking restaurant, I asked to be seated there. The hostess seemed surprised and told me there were tables available inside, but I insisted. I sat outside, alone, with a view of the Snake River, and was reminded of my journey to Sedona in June, when I stayed in Santa Fe and wrote a post about my dinner alone at the bar. That night felt like a lifetime ago. When the waitress came out with my wine, I asked her where I was. She told me Twin Falls, Idaho. I should have been more specific. I asked about the river that offered such a beautiful backdrop to my dining, my table for one, my patio for one. She told me it was the Snake River. I realized that in the comfortable womb of my car, I had passed such beautiful scenery, and often didn’t even know what state I was in. The next time I’m in Twin Falls, I’ll look for the Snake River and will have dinner at Elevations. The familiar will be a comfort.

No matter where I’m escaping to, I take myself and my grief with me, so it’s not really an escape at all, but for now, it feels right, and I feel safe, and safe feels good.

Life scares me right now, because I know how fast things can change. I feel nervous, on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop when I’m already barefoot. I read that how you spend the first day of the new year is an indicator of how the year will go. On the day of 2025, in the afternoon, I sat on my couch, pen in hand, ready to fill my journal pages with expectations, dreams, hopes, and travel plans. And then I got a phone call from Miles. 911 had been called.

I am forever changed. My family is forever changed. We’ve found the glimmers of beauty— the micro joys amongst the macro grief, and that alone has been a tremendous gift. We have slowed down, become more discerning in our life choices, and found gratitude where it seemed impossible to exist. And I’ve found Emery. Her presence has been felt in the many signs she’s given me during my travels. A surprise rainbow when there was no rain, a small flock of birds that flew alongside me for several miles, a favorite song of hers that I heard while fueling my car, or a random photo of her showing up on my phone screen without a prompt.

I’ll be back in my car in a few days for the nine-hour drive to Kansas City, which, after a two-day drive to Portland, feels short. I will settle into the safe cocoon of my car, with a coffee in the cup holder and an hour or so of silence, because that’s how I like to begin. I’ll have a chat with Emery, shed some tears, sit in the quiet and feel her presence, then, when I feel ready, I’ll start a new audiobook or listen to a podcast. No longer in Boulder and not yet in Kansas City, I’ll sink into the liminal spot of having left but not yet arrived. The spot where I feel safe. The spot where I feel hope.

The Girl’s Got Style

When you can’t decide, wear them all… a skirt, a dress, a shirt.

How can you not smile? I loved how my girl pushed the boundaries on her outfits.

Muna, in a sweater that I knit for Emery 30 years ago, styled with heart necklaces. I see Emery’s style, her personality and her beauty, every time I look at Muna.

It was a windy spring day, at Kindergarten Roundup, when I learned that my darling Emery, at the tender age of five, did not wear underwear. Ever. While we were waiting outside the school for Kindergarten Roundup, talking with friends, a burst of wind caught her dress, revealing her underwear-free bottom. I couldn’t help but laugh, then quickly scanned the area for reassurance that there were no other witnesses besides my friend, Kate, and her son, who were waiting with us. I assumed it was the excitement of the day’s events that had caused her to forget her underwear that morning. I was wrong.

“I didn’t forget, Mama. It feels better this way.”

Kate, who also saw my bare-bottomed child, told me with a chuckle, “My Eric will never date your Emery!” The gift of her unbridled humor sealed the deal on our friendship that day, and we still laugh about it thirty years later.

After having two sons, I thought having a daughter would be easy. No more warnings about poking eyes out as my sons chased each other around the yard, with sticks as their swords. No more reminding them to quit taking clothes out of the clothes hamper to wear, regardless of how much they liked them, because they were dirty. No more insisting that they put their shirts on right side out with tags in back after repeated choruses of “Why does it matter?” A girl would be easier. Girls liked to braid hair, twirl in their dresses, put on fashion shows with their dolls, and drink pretend tea out of tiny cups. I had to rethink some of those assumptions while contemplating the naked little bottom under the sweet, blue, and white flowered dress…Because it feels better this way.

Before Emery started wearing the underwear that she would eventually stop wearing, I found a tiny pair of panties with roses on them when I went through her school diaper bag. She attended pre-school two days a week, and the teacher had parents leave a diaper bag with an extra set of clothes, underwear, diapers, or pull-ups, just in case. I asked her where the panties came from, and she told me she traded a pull-up for them.

“Katie has a bunch of sisters, Mama, so she’s got lots of pretty panties. I told her she probably needed more pull-ups.”

My daughter was a good negotiator and had definitely traded up. Whereas some parents used sweet treats to encourage potty training, I used tiny, flowered underwear. “You will have your own collection of pretty panties, without having to trade with Katie,” became my bargaining tool to get rid of the diapers, and it worked.


Emery’s style began to develop at a very early age. She knew exactly what she wanted and didn’t want to wear, without my help, thank you very much. Her strong opinions began in preschool, when I stopped trying to control what she wore and instead embraced her desire for independence and her need to showcase her creativity through her outfit choices. I was also tired of arguing. When dropping Emery off at preschool, I learned to ignore the side-eyed glances from the mothers whose daughters wore pastel dresses with matching tights and ribbons in their hair. In contrast, my daughter wore flowers with plaids, dresses over pants, and two dresses at once, all paired with red cowboy boots. I saw a lot of myself in her, but my interest in fashion and expressing myself in my clothing began in junior high, not preschool.

Emery was my third child in five years, and I let go of a lot due to exhaustion. However, I insisted on weather-appropriate winter clothing—coats, hats, and mittens. Emery’s daughter, Muna, is much like her Mama, but shoes are her thing, and she doesn’t want to wear them. The red cowboy boots were saved, and Emery and I both hoped Muna would love them, but she didn’t, because, regardless of how cute they were, they are shoes. Fortunately for her, students leave their shoes in cubbies outside of her classroom in Costa Rica. She’s able to go barefoot, which has been her preference since she was old enough to voice an opinion. Muna has her Mama’s decisive opinions regarding her clothing. The thread continues.

When Emery was in high school, I started using her strong fashion sense to my advantage and would ask her to help me with my closet clean-outs. The one thing I could always count on with Emery was honesty. There was no “That looks cute, Mom,” while her face indicated otherwise. Our sessions would end with a much leaner, more organized closet, along with a kick to my ego as the price of doing business, but I always appreciated her honesty.

“Are you sure this dress/skirt/jacket/pants/blouse is not a keeper?” I’d ask hopefully.



“To the pile, Mom. Well, unless you’re going for a Little House on the Prairie look, then, by all means, hang it back up.”

And without hesitation or sentimentality, my beloved Little House on the Prairie pieces would be heaped on a growing pile of What were you thinking?

I was learning a lot more than what was in style or out, what looked good, or what needed to be given away during those sessions. Emery, without knowing it, was teaching me about non-attachment and letting go; lessons that have stayed with me.

Shortly after I got divorced, Emery asked me if she could take me shopping, adding that when I started dating again, I might want a wardrobe refresh. Of course, her taking me shopping meant I paid for what she selected. Her strict terms included me not leaving the dressing room while she brought clothes for me to try on, even if I didn’t like them or thought they were not age-appropriate, unflattering, or didn’t fit my style or budget.


“Those are some strict parameters to follow, Em,” and before I could finish, she said,
“Are you in or not?”
“I’m in.”

Emery was 15. I was 50. I followed her rules, and after a few hours with me sitting in the Nordstrom dressing room and her bringing me items to try on, including a pair of jeans that she insisted I not look at the price, we had a successful day. I had a healthy start on a date-worthy wardrobe, including the jeans, and when I did sneak a look at the price, I wondered who in the world would pay that much for a pair. Well, me, it seems, and those over-priced jeans became my favorites, and I wore them until they became so thin I could no longer trust them when I sat down. My date-worthy wardrobe, much to Emery’s dismay, was primarily worn for evenings out with the girls, but when I did have a date, it was always Emery who dressed me.

It doesn’t seem that long ago that Emery sent me a video of three-year-old Muna, anxious to go outside early morning and play after a night of snow. She had her coat, hat, mittens, and boots on, but no pants; her bare bottom peeked out from the bottom of her jacket. In the video, Emery asked her where her pants were, and Muna responded, “I’m not wearing pants.”



Emery didn’t need to ask why, because her three-year-old self already knew.



Because it feels better this way.

Diagnosis: pneumonia and trauma

I understand how birthdays, anniversaries, and most recently Thanksgiving could become triggers for Emery’s death.  Maybe for a few years, or maybe forever.  I don’t know.  This morning, on the 11th month anniversary, another trigger, I went to Urgent Care with a throat that was on fire, and a lot of coughing. When the medical assistant put the oximeter on my finger, I started sobbing.   

I’m in Portland now, and my son and daughter-in-law both had commitments, but they told me they’d be happy to take me later in the day.  I’m used to doing things by myself (some would say to a fault), so I had no problem going alone.  I told them I’d be fine and just wanted some reassurance that it wasn’t anything serious that needed treatment.

When I started sobbing in the exam room, I wished I had waited for Thomas or Brooke to come with me, as I needed them. It was less about how I was feeling physically and more about the emotional side that could have used some shoring up. The mask they had me put on gave me a little cover, but the medical assistant sensed something was wrong. She asked me if I usually have a difficult time getting a reading on an oximeter, and I told her no and that earlier in the year, I had been using an oximeter multiple times a day and always got a reading quickly. I was referring to my family’s time in the rental house in January, where the oximeter sat on the kitchen counter and was used whenever we passed it. We were all scared. We now knew too much. I realized how odd my words must have sounded, so I clarified.

“My daughter died from pneumonia and influenza last January, so my family and I kind of became obsessed with taking our oxygen readings in the early days following her death.” 


It sucked the oxygen out of the room, literally, as she was struggling to get an oxygen reading.  I had not intended to share that with her, but I had to explain why I was sobbing, and it wasn’t because she couldn’t get an oxygen reading. She was stunned, offered her condolences, and after trying several fingers, she finally got a reading of 80, which is not a reading you want.  There was a time when I didn’t know that 80 was a bad reading or 68 (the reading Emery got that prompted the 911 call). That has all changed. I know what is good and what is acceptable now, and 80 is neither. She got another oximeter, and it registered 95.  Thomas later told me, after I shared my emotional experience with him, “We will all carry that trauma for a very long time, Mom.” He was right. The oximeters, influenza tests, and chest x-rays are far scarier than they should be.  Maybe they always will be.

Elizabeth, the nurse practitioner, came in and told me she heard me coughing from the lobby and wanted me to get a chest X-ray. I explained my tears, telling her that this was all very triggering to me – the chest X-ray, the pneumonia test, and the oximeter, because they all related so to my daughter’s cause of death. She sat down. She asked me what my daughter’s name was, then asked if I was Ok with sharing, as she wanted to hear what happened. I gave her a brief sketch of the timeline from January 1 to January 4. After hearing the story, she asked me how old Emery was and if she had children.

“Thirty-four and yes, two, ages 5 and 7 when she died.”

After she left the room and I waited for the test results, I noticed the boxes of blue surgical gloves hanging in a dispenser on the wall. They triggered a memory. We couldn’t enter Emery’s ICU room at St. Joseph’s without putting on a gown, a mask, and gloves first.  The gloves were also the same ones the nurse had used as a hair tie when, for the first time, I didn’t have one on my wrist.  She cut off the end and used it to pull Emery’s hair away from her face so it wouldn’t get tangled in the oxygen mask. I told her I was amazed at the skills nurses had, and she told me they have endless tricks up their sleeves.

I know my emotions were amplified, in part, because I wasn’t feeling well and because it was the 11-month anniversary.  Actually, I was feeling bad enough that for a moment, I thought about the irony of my dying on the same date that Emery died, a year later.  The death certificate would say pneumonia, but anyone reading it would know that it was really that big hole in my heart.  I couldn’t live with it anymore. Morbid?  Maybe.  But that is what free-wheeling in grief looks like.  There’s not much control.

I tested negative for COVID and influenza, but the chest X-ray was positive for pneumonia. I couldn’t help but think about how scared Emery must have been, given how scared I was, and then realized she wouldn’t have had the same framework I did.  She didn’t know yet that people really do die from the flu, even healthy 34-year-olds.

In my clinician’s notes under Family History, it said:

Has a history of losing her 34-year-old daughter to the flu. Patient reports experiencing triggers and sad emotions while being here in the clinic.

Emery’s death is now a part of my medical history. Then again, of course it is.

I feel like I’m carrying a sleeping bag full of bricks and so desperately want to set it down. Even though it’s been 11 months, I still don’t feel like I’ve gotten any better at carrying a load I didn’t want to be handed in the first place. Today, a few more bricks were added. The pneumonia is not helping.

Last night, I lay in bed, on my back because that was the most comfortable position I could find, and I felt a heaviness, like someone had set a few of my bricks on my chest. The nurse had told me that it would likely happen, but I had forgotten. It brought me back to Emery, before intubated, but with the oxygen mask, texting that her chest hurt and the pain was a seven. I felt like I wasn’t just trying to understand what she had gone through, but as her mom, I was crawling into bed next to her to experience it for myself, and she was helping me; my three on pain, her seven. It made me long for that girl in the bed, whom I was unable to comfort, short of telling her how much I loved her and that the medicine would start to help. I had no idea. Last night, I briefly journeyed into her pain with my own pain. It did not give me comfort. Instead, it connected me deeper to her experience and the helplessness I felt.

It’s an impossible burden as a mother to know there was nothing I could do to help my daughter.