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.