Category: Emery

A red coat and a gray vest.

A few years ago, Emery took me to a vintage store in a nearby town that had become one of her favorites. She had been talking about it for months, but finding free time with her busy schedule wasn’t easy. She had purchased several pieces there, including clothing, her dining room chairs and some art. She told me I’d not only love the merchandise but also the store’s unique western decor, as well as the owner, whom she now knew on a first-name basis. She was right on all counts. As soon as I walked in the heavy wooden front door of the store, which sat on a corner and was once a filling station, I felt right at home. The decor in the shop matched my own decor, both the decor I own and the decor I want to own.

Emery immediately spotted a vintage Mexican tourist jacket, insisted it was “me,” and told me I needed to try it on. It was expensive, but Emery told me jackets like that were rare, especially in pristine condition. Given its uniqueness, she thought it was well-priced. Emery has talked me into buying more than one item, both clothing and otherwise, that I was reluctant to purchase because it was too expensive. But she was rarely wrong, and every piece I shared the excitement of the purchase with her has turned out to be a treasure. Swept up in her enthusiasm, I tried the jacket on. The store owner, Susan, told us it had been a rare find and she debated keeping it for herself — words that made me start justifying the price tag in my head, given Susan’s enviable style. I hung it back up and continued to shop, telling myself I needed to think about it, but knowing full well it would be going home with me.

As I made my way around the shop, weaving in and out of furniture, home decor, and clothing, a gray knitted vest that I guessed was from the 1940s caught my eye. Unfortunately, it had caught the eye of another shopper, who picked it up as I was nearing the rack, holding it up to check the size. I moved on, continuing my way around the handful of clothing racks, eventually making a full circle and returning to the gray vest, which had once again been returned to the rack. I took it to the dressing room to try on, and, of course, it fit perfectly and was priced well. Without hesitation, I took the vest to the counter and set it down, knowing it was a sure thing, but I still needed some more thinking time, or persuasion from Emery, on the jacket.

Now, if you’re still reading this and thinking, “Ok, so what?” Hold on. There’s more.

Emery continued with her persuasion, reminding me that it was so me and such a rare find, so I set it down next to the vest to buy them both.


The woman who had held up the vest previously asked,
“Did you put this here? Because I was going to buy it.”


“Yes, I did.” I figured that would clear up her confusion, although at the same time, I was beginning to feel defensive.


“But it’s mine and I am going to buy it,” she responded.


“Yours? But it was on the rack. You returned it.”


“But I was going to go back and get it, so it’s mine.”


Now I was definitely feeling defensive.


“I put it on the counter, which to me indicates that I was going to purchase it,” I said, my pulse now racing.


“But you saw me holding it up.”


“But you returned it.”


The conversation went back and forth, with both of us claiming the vest was ours to purchase, with little movement on either side. Then something shifted. I saw Emery and the store owner watching our back-and-forth and realized that, as Emery’s mom, I wanted to set a good example. Had she not been there, I would have held my ground, and things may have gotten ugly, but I would have gone home with the vest. Instead, I was the bigger person and said, “Ok, the vest is yours.”

I gestured for her to go ahead of me, and she thanked me, made her purchase, and headed for the door. Before leaving, though, she turned around and, with grace and kindness, said, “That was really nice of you, and I appreciate what you just did. Really.” And then she left. She wanted that vest, and maybe even more because I was in the process of buying it, but in that moment, it didn’t matter. I had done the right thing, or so I thought. I had set a good example in front of my daughter and the store owner, who watched the entire drama unfold. Or so I thought. After the woman left the store, leaving only the store owner, Susan, Emery, and me, Emery told me I had done a nice thing for the woman, as she looked like she was suffering. After the woman left the store and only the store owner, Susan, Emery and I remained, Emery told me it was nice what I had done for the woman as she looked like she was suffering. 


“Suffering?” I asked.
“Well, maybe. She looked sad. Maybe she had had a fight with her boyfriend or husband, or maybe she had just lost her job or learned her mom had cancer. She looked sad. And now she has the vest she wanted, and she seemed a little happier when she left.”
My first thought was that Emery saw far deeper into the woman’s emotional state than I had. As much as I liked the vintage vest, I had done the right thing, or so I thought.

“But… I can’t believe you let her buy it, Mom. I mean, it looked so cute on you, and you had it on the counter. Everyone knows that means you’re getting ready to purchase it.”


Had this been a moment of kindness I had demonstrated for Emery’s benefit, or a display of weakness?
 The store owner, Susan, chimed in.
“Yes, that was nice what you did, but clearly it was your vest.”



A few minutes later, another customer came into the store, and the store owner, whom I now also know well enough to call Susan, asked her opinion on the matter.
“Do you think that putting something on the counter by the register means you’re going to buy it?”
The woman agreed wholeheartedly with Susan (and Emery). Then, the store owner filled in the details, explaining how kind I had been by letting the woman have the vest that I had clearly claimed. Now I’m the nice, albeit pushover customer, or so it seemed. Susan said she felt bad and was going to look for similar vests on her upcoming shopping trips, and for some reason, I knew she wasn’t just saying that to placate me.

I was happy with my jacket purchase because I loved it, but I was still struggling to let go of what had happened. I wished I had been more assertive. I wanted the vest.

But there’s more…

When reviewing my credit card statement a few weeks later, I noticed a large charge from a gas station—a charge I hadn’t made. I had recently driven to KC and back and assumed the fraud had happened somewhere in western Kansas while I was getting gas, although the dates didn’t quite align. Having gone through credit card fraud a few times, I knew the drill. I called my credit card company and reported that my card appeared to have been compromised at a gas station. They credited the charge and told me a new card would arrive within a few days. A few hours later, while stopped at a stoplight, it dawned on me what the charge was for. The boutique where I had bought the vintage jacket was located in what had been a filling station, which is why the charge listed the filling station’s name instead of the boutique’s. I knew I was right as the amount was exactly what I had paid for the jacket. I called the credit card company back. First, I wanted to ensure that the merchant had been paid. Then, I asked if the charge could be put back on my card, a request they told me they had never run across before. They told me they couldn’t do that as that account had been closed. “Consider it a gift,” the woman told me. Or maybe karma, I thought.

But there’s more…

A few months later, Emery came over with a gift bag and handed it to me, explaining it was from Susan, who owned the shop where the drama had occurred. Inside was a gray vintage sweater vest, similar to the vest I had given up. She told me Susan wanted me to know it was her gift to me. I was deeply touched that she had remembered and followed through on her promise. I’m usually good with my thank-you’s, but for some reason, my plans to write her a thank-you note were forgotten. I went to the boutique a few times afterwards to thank her in person, but she was never there.

The next time I saw Susan was at Emery’s celebration of life, a day that I’ve forgotten more about than I’ve remembered. I remember her approaching me and hugging me with tears flowing down her cheeks, and the only thing I could think to say to her was, 
“I’m so sorry…I forgot to thank you for the sweater.”

She nodded, and of course, she understood.

October 2

Emery’s first steps, on her first birthday.

Emery knew immediately that it was the birthday cake she wanted when she saw it in the bakery case.  I suggested the cake with the teddy bear on it, because it seemed more appropriate, but it wasn’t what she wanted. She was almost four. She wanted the pink baby bootie cake that would likely be served at a baby shower.  

I was having coffee with my friend, Donna, and her almost four-year-old son, James, when Emery spotted the cake.  I loved her enthusiasm, but told her it was too early to buy the cake, as her birthday wasn’t for a few weeks.  I figured she’d forget about the cake or it would be gone by our next visit. I should have known better. The next time we were in the coffee shop/bakery,  the pastel pink cake was still there, along with Emery’s enthusiasm. The third time we saw the cake, we ordered one. 

“ The teddy bear cake sure is cute… are you sure about the baby bootie cake?” I asked Emery. 

She looked at me as if I hadn’t been listening to her. She knew exactly what she wanted and wasn’t going to be swayed by my suggestions.  A few days later, on her birthday,  Emery blew out four candles on a pastel pink baby bootie cake.

During a time when I’m holding on so tightly to every memory that comes to mind because forgetting feels like losing more of Emery, I’m grateful for the baby bootie cake and not the teddy bear cake, because it was a cake that gave me a story and a memory.

Memories of Emery (and yes, I’ve noted the rhyming aspect and it means even more to me now) hold so much more weight than they used to, and insignificant details loom large to keep me up at night.   Who came to the party at our house when she was six? Or was it seven? And what was the name of the tall girl with long hair who felt bad because she didn’t bring a gift to that party?  The girl whose mom always looked tired and gave the toddler sister small tins of Vienna sausages for a snack. It doesn’t matter, yet it matters so very much.  Did Emery prefer chocolate cake over vanilla cake?  I feel like a part of her is fading away if I can’t remember. Then again, if I could text her, she likely wouldn’t remember either, except the Vienna sausages, which always made us laugh. 

I remember Emery’s first birthday because it was also the day she took her first steps.  Not steps with me seated on the floor with outstretched arms, but rather, steps across the kitchen countertop after she climbed out of her high chair (I no longer buckled her in, third child and all).  I don’t remember her blowing out a candle or me singing to her, but I do remember it was just the two of us in the kitchen.  Charlie was out of town, and the boys were at a friend’s house. I gave her a cupcake, and we had our own little party. Even though there would be a family gathering that weekend, I couldn’t let her actual day go by without some acknowledgement.

I  remember chocolate on her face as she made her way out of the high chair, pulled herself onto the countertop, and took her first steps. I also remember the moment when I grabbed my camera, without taking my eyes off of her, to record the moment. It may not have been wise, but who would have believed me had I not obtained the evidence? I caught a glimpse of the child Emery was becoming…fearless, curious, and determined. 

Age 13. After much persuasion, I caved and said yes to a slumber party for 13, because it has to be 13 girls for my 13th birthday party, Mom!   We converted the basement into one big sleeping area with blow-up beds, sleeping bags, blankets, and pillows.  It was worth every sleepless moment for the many stories that followed.

Age 16.  Emery had a Black and White party with three other friends whose birthdays lined up consecutively on the calendar.  The guests wore black and white.  I had a cake made with all four of the birthday kids’ photographs in icing on the top. Emery thought it was fancy.  I had to agree.

Age 20.  I wasn’t in the country, but I sent my birthday wishes to Emery from the Himalayan Mountains while on my trek in Nepal with my sister, Susan. Susan and I were sitting outside our hut early in the morning in our pajamas, with our morning coffee in the foothills of the Annapurna Range, sending Emery happy birthday wishes in a phone call. Emery thanked me for the call and loved that I was calling her from the other side of the world, then reminded me that her birthday wasn’t until the next day.  I was a day early due to the time change. 

Age 21:

(Excerpt from a letter I gave Emery on her birthday)

Before I left the hospital to give birth to you, your brothers, ages 3 and 4 1/2, told me not to bring home another brother, and if I had a boy, to leave him at the hospital.  They only wanted to be brothers to a little sister!

You brought a balance of feminine energy into a house that was overloaded with testosterone and gave your brothers the gift of growing up with a little sister.  You’ve become my travel buddy, my confidant, my excellent listener, and at times, my memory.  My life is richer, deeper, and more meaningful with you in it.  Oct. 1, 1990, was one of the happiest days of my life, and now, 21 years later, I’m honored to celebrate that magical day with you.

We celebrated Emery’s 21st birthday with a family dinner at The Melting Pot because Emery had always wanted to go there.  Afterwards, she told me it was way too much cheese for anyone to ingest.  I agreed.

Age 26.  I was walking the Camino with Susan on Emery’s birthday.  If it looks like there was a pattern with me being out of town or out of the country, you’re correct.  Late September to early October was a good time for travel as it coincided with the many walking vacations Susan and I took.  I felt terrible celebrating so many of Emery’s birthdays after the fact, but she was always very supportive of my trips.  I wasn’t sure what to buy her for her 26th birthday, as shops were scarce along the Camino, but I came up with an idea while walking.  I made a video with happy birthday wishes from both friends I had met and strangers I approached on the Camino.  The wishes were in Spanish, French, and English, most with Australian accents.  It was one of the best gifts I ever gave her.  She agreed.

Age 30. I was in town for Emery’s 30th, but due to Covid, we weren’t together, so my words were my gift to her.

October 2, 2020

“I slowed down to an almost stop with you, Emery, and it was deliciously wonderful to live life at the pace and the viewpoint of a little girl who twirled her way through life with a smile on her face and a song in her heart.  Your deep-rooted compassion for others, both two-legged and four-legged, touched me deeply when you were a child and still does today.  Thirty years ago, when Dr. Thomas handed you to me, my life felt complete.  I had my girl. 

Hold on to the wonder you found so early in life as you dance your way into a new decade, my darling girl. My heart explodes with the love I have for you: beautiful mother, beautiful wife, beautiful daughter.  You are a gift to the world, and we are all blessed.  

Recently, I was texting a friend about Emery’s birthday in October.  Her daughter died five years ago.

“Do I say celebrate?” I asked her. 

“Yes,” she said, “because we will always celebrate the day our girls were born.”

Celebration is still a difficult word to use for the first birthday that our family will experience without Emery, but I am holding tight to her words… celebrate the day she was born.

After being out of town or country for so many of Emery’s birthdays, I will be where I need to be on October 2nd this year.  I’ll be with her brothers and their families on a beach in southern California.  If I could find a pastel pink baby bootie cake, I would buy it and light the metal sparkler candles I recently found in a basket on one of my kitchen shelves. I have no idea where the candles came from, but ironically, there were two, a five, and a three.  I thought, how odd, then I turned them around—a three and a five.  Thirty-five.  The age I was when I had Emery, the age Emery would have been this year.  

October 2, 2025.  We’re celebrating your birth, my darling girl, and the gift you gave to all of us who loved you.  I found the perfect birthday card for you months before you died, which I set aside because that’s what I do.  It’s in a small stack of cards that are separate from my larger stash, as none of them will ever be sent, but will be reread often by me; a Mother’s Day card, a Father’s Day card, a birthday card for Dad, and one for you.  You are missed beyond measure and so very loved.

257

Today is day 257. 257 days of feeling lost, untethered, disconnected. 257 days of waking up to the same thought. She’s gone. Emery died. She’s never coming back. 257 days of not being able to text her or call her, but mostly text her because she hated talking on the phone. 257 days of a missing that is so deep I feel it in my bones, and they hurt. 257 days of holding my breath when family members don’t immediately return my call or text. My mind goes to the dark side because now I know that terrible and unpredictable things not only can happen, but do. 257 nights of either sleeping twelve hours and still not feeling ready to get up, or not sleeping at all. 257 days of wondering where I went and if I’ll ever be back. 217 days of counting days, starting on day 40, which is a significant day in many religions, but only became significant to me because there was a gathering of some of Emery’s friends on day 40, and I wrote about it in my journal of letters to her. The next day, I wrote 41 next to the date, and I’ve been writing the day ever since.

I remember day 100. I was in Manzanita, Oregon, staying in a cottage on the beach that I had rented the year before. This year was a much different stay. My walks on the beach were tearful and sad, and didn’t hold the wonder and awe they held the previous year. I was marking time until my sons and their families’ arrival for a visit. When I wasn’t walking on the beach, I was sleeping on the blue couch, the one that faced the ocean, and held me during the afternoons when everything else felt too hard. Napping was an easy escape.

That morning, on day 100, I was walking down the beach when my son-in-law, Miles, called me. We exchanged grief stories: What do your days look like? How’s your sleep? How are Arlo and Muna? How are you? Then he told me he needed to talk to me about something, words that had me finding a place to sit down. He was considering a move to Costa Rica with the children…for a year. It was something he and Emery had discussed after their second trip there, and something Emery had also mentioned to me. My first reaction was panic, thinking he couldn’t possibly take Arlo and Muna, or himself, away from their support systems. Or me, which is really where I landed. It would be more loss on top of the loss I was still buried under. He told me he was struggling with living in the house, surrounded by Emery’s things. Nosara, Costa Rica, would be a start fresh, where they would feel Emery’s energy, but not be inundated by her things. It made sense. How could they possibly heal while navigating around the massive crater that the loss of Emery had left? Maneuvering around the hole in their lives while doing the things that Emery had always been a part of — school drop off and pick up, going to the store, friends’ houses for play dates, excursions for ice cream, the park, and all the other places that everyday life took them, but without their anchor.

Arlo and Muna were following in their Dad’s lead…tiptoeing around the places, the feelings and the things that were Emery, while attempting to find as much normalcy as possible. Leaving made sense, and moving to Nosara, even more so, as they had dreamed of living there for a year to raise bilingual and multicultural children. By the time we hung up, I had given Miles my full approval. Then, with the Pacific Ocean in front of me, I wept. It would be another goodbye. Another loss. I started wondering where I belonged. Emery was the one who brought me to Boulder, and now she was gone. And soon, Miles and the children would be gone as well.

I felt a similar disconnect with Boulder that Miles was experiencing. So many places had become emotional triggers. I couldn’t go into shops where Emery and I frequented, or where the owners knew her, or restaurants where we often ate. I have left my home more than I’ve stayed.

Since January 4, 2025, I’ve been on 16 flights, mainly to LA and Portland, Oregon, and have slept in 18 different beds, as well as one night in a chair in the ICU at Foothills Hospital in Boulder. I’ve driven from Boulder to Portland and back, from Boulder to Kansas City and back three times, and from Boulder to LA, where I’m currently staying for the month of September. Boulder has become a difficult place for me to be, but at the same time, it is where so much of Emery was, and I don’t want to lose that.

Recently, I visited her house and walked through her wildflower spiral garden, a spiral I had often walked with Arlo and Muna in the summer. One particular day, while Arlo and Muna were trying to find their “pet” toad, who lived among the flowers, I glanced over and saw Emery standing at the side of the garden, smiling —something she often did while watching me play with Arlo and Muna. I returned her smile, a gesture deep with emotion and understood by both of us: love, for each other and love for Arlo and Muna. Afterwards, I gave her some suggestions on how she could control the weeds the following year, and she smiled and nodded her head, but we both knew she wouldn’t do it. Any of it, because she liked a wild garden, but knew I’d make the suggestions as I did every summer. Being there without her or the children was one of the loneliest moments I’ve felt since she died. It was more confirmation to me that Miles had made the right decision by moving to Costa Rica for the year, even though I missed them dearly.

Over the last 257 days, my writing has shifted to pieces about Emery and grief because I write about what life shows me and what I feel, and that is my current life loop. My routine remains unchanged and I still get up every morning at 7:00, make my coffee, and sit down at my computer to write for at least two hours.

Shortly before the Costa Rica move, Muna came over for a sleepover. While she was carefully taking her things out of the toiletry bag that had once belonged to Emery and organizing them on my bathroom counter (her toothbrush, toothpaste, a plastic unicorn, a tube of lipstick and two of Emery’s hair clips), she spotted my robe hanging next to my bathtub. My grandchildren are curious about things they don’t usually see of mine, like pajamas and robes, as well as what I look like when I brush my teeth, what I read before I go to sleep and if I sleep with a nightlight on. Muna told me my robe was beautiful. I agreed and told her that her Mama had given it to me last Christmas because she thought I needed to look nice when I got up in the morning to write. I’ve worn it every morning since she gave it to me, except when it’s in the laundry, and I love that my morning writing routine came to mind in the shop where she purchased it. Muna liked her Mama’s suggestion that I look nice when I write, and told me, “Well, I don’t drink coffee in the morning, or ever, and I don’t write, except for my name, but I would wear a robe if I had one.” Before I could respond, she added, “Especially if it had dogs on it! Then I would wear it EVERY morning!”

I’ll be going to Costa Rica in October for Muna’s sixth birthday, and there will be a pink robe in my suitcase with dogs and hearts all over it. We will wear our robes together while I drink coffee and she doesn’t. And we will look nice, and Emery would have loved it.

For 257 days, and often without warning, I’ve cried. Sometimes, it hits me with the same fervency as it did at 11:38 am on the morning of January 4th. No one should ever have to relive those feelings of anguish that present themselves, frequently and at unexpected moments…while walking up my stairs to go to bed, or getting into my car after grocery shopping, or on a hiking trail or a neighborhood walk. It usually passes quickly, but leaves a feeling that wants to hang on.

I often return to the memory of telling Emery goodbye, while machines kept her alive in a hospital in Denver, her time on this earth being left in her family’s hands, who told the doctors when to turn the machines off. A tiny part of me thinks there might be a different outcome when I go through that last day in my mind. Much in the same way, I would call my Dad’s phone after he died, thinking maybe, just maybe, he’ll answer. Of course, he never did, but what if he had? Joan Didion called it magical thinking. I call it misplaced hopefulness or not being able to accept reality. But the ending doesn’t change. Miles still gives the doctor a nod, indicating that we’re ready, and she still shuts down the machines. The doctor still gives Emery her final physical exam, and she still pulls out her phone to do what I’ve seen so many times in the movies, yet I still brace myself, knowing what’s next. “Time of death, 11:38 am.” The nurse still writes it down.

The room goes quiet. So quiet I think I can hear every one of our hearts beating, but the one that stopped beating is the one that is the loudest. My heart hovers in the space between where I’m standing and Emery, who is now referred to as a body, is lying. Maybe it’s not sure where it belongs. Maybe it still doesn’t know, 257 days later.

Sedona for the Soul


On Memorial Day, 2025, I slipped on wet grass while playing with my grandchildren and broke my ankle.  Three days later, I drove to Sedona for a week of grief therapy.  I shouldn’t have, as it was my right ankle, but I did it anyway.  I was treated at a nearby urgent care, and when the nurse practitioner told me my ankle was broken and I’d need a boot,  I told her I was driving to Sedona in three days.  She looked up at me with raised brows, and before she could say anything, I added, “For therapy.  My daughter recently died… from unexpected complications from the flu…in two and a half days.”

“The flu? Oh my god… I’m so, so sorry.  I hope you’ll find what you need in Sedona. Oh, and take the boot off when you’re driving.” Before leaving the room, she stopped, looked at me again, and in a gentle voice said, “I really am sorry.  Take care.”  I heard that as permission because it was what I needed to hear.  I knew if I cancelled, it would be a long time before the therapists, chosen specifically for me, would have availability.


I knew that driving to Sedona would not be good for my ankle, but I also knew I needed to put my mental health ahead of my physical health.  Two days later, I got in my car and made the two-day trip to Sedona with my boot riding shotgun, until I made a stop, then I’d put it on. Once at the hotel, I took off my boot and replaced it with ice and elevation, making that my hotel routine. I thought I was doing the right thing. I wasn’t.


I had ten sessions in five days. I was alone in my therapy, not in a group, and the ten sessions were all different — talk therapy, therapy while seated on a large rock next to a river, breath work, equine therapy, massage therapy, and energy work. Most days, I had two sessions, one in the morning and one in the afternoon, with a break in between for lunch, except for equine therapy, which was a three-hour session, leaving me too exhausted to do anything else afterwards but sleep. All the therapists had been notified about my injury, and Belle, the horse trainer/therapist, had a chair waiting for me when I arrived. The horses, Penny, Mimi, and Salsa, stood close together with their noses pressed against the wall. I asked Belle what they were doing. I’m not a horse person and didn’t grow up around horses, but their positioning looked odd to me. She said they were working. She had told them about me, and they were waiting. I was struck by the two mares, Mimi and Penny, because I often called my daughter, Emery, Mimi, and one of her favorite dolls was named Penny. It felt like she was right next to me, beside my chair, with our eyes on the horses.
I shared stories about Emery with Belle, most of them through tears.  The horses would react by stomping their feet or moving their heads up and down. 

Belle told me they were responding to my stories and were feeling both my emotional pain and the physical pain of my ankle.  Horses read energy and vibrations, and Belle told me they heard me and could understand me in the same way a person who is deaf hears music.  I felt comforted in their presence.  I don’t understand horses or their ability to co-regulate their nervous system to a person in pain, but by the time I left, my ankle no longer hurt, and I felt a deep sense of calm.  When the session was over, I approached Penny to express my thanks.  I felt Emery’s hand on mine, a hand that also had feared horses, as I stroked her neck, feeling calm and drawn to the massive animal I had feared when I arrived.


Digging into the essence of who you are, without edits, is exhausting work, and I had little energy left at the end of the day. I ate dinner as early as I could, mostly to get it over with so I could go to bed. At that hour, I ate in almost empty restaurants with people I used to say were old, but now I’m their age.
On the recommendation of one of my therapists,  I went to the Airport Mesa Grill.  The restaurant is situated on a vortex, a concentration of the Earth’s energy that many believe promotes spiritual growth and healing. Sedona has become famous for its seven vortexes, the Airport Mesa Grill being one of them. The restaurant’s appeal to me was less about the vortex, although I was curious, and more about being able to sit at the bar and watch small planes taxi across the tarmac.  That, to me, was an energy center I could feel because of my flying history with small airplanes. It became my restaurant of choice, and I returned two more times during my week in Sedona, sitting in the same spot at the bar, the one closest to the window.  I didn’t talk, but became an observer instead, while I watched the planes, the people at the bar, and my thoughts.

My week of therapy in Sedona was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, except deciding to file for divorce twenty years ago. When people asked me when I returned home if the therapy had helped or if I felt better, I had to answer no, but I felt different, and for now, different felt like enough.


My therapists were the ones holding the magnifying glass and the flashlight to my grief while I worked my way through to the depths of my soul, digging through the layers that had been buried by life. They were my guides, but I was the one on the journey, and in the end, after excavating parts of myself I didn’t know existed, with apprehension and a pickaxe, I now know where the diamonds are.  I haven’t uncovered one yet, but I know where they are buried.  It is in the grief of losing my daughter that I have found a quiet that I’ve never felt before.  It’s raw and honest, speaking the truth in a voice that shakes and is barely audible, but I can still hear it.  The pain is excruciating, yet pure and strangely comforting.  One of the therapists told me that he was impressed with my bravery and my willingness to step into the fire and spend time with my grief.  His words surprised me. I told him I lived in the fire because it is in the pain where I’ve found the most profound love, and I will crawl through sprays of brambles of sorrow to reach it, if I have to.


I wanted to be able to come home and, when asked if my work in Sedona helped with my grief and loss, say yes, and I feel so much better, but that’s not what happened. I dug deep into my soul at the edge of a river, next to three horses in a stall, on a cushion in a studio where I did breath work, in therapists’ homes, in a clearing in the woods, and Emery was right there with me.  She came to me in my dreams and told me to lean into the strength I had forgotten I had, but she hadn’t. I felt her presence, her guidance, and her strength.


Before I left Sedona, I went into one of the many aura photo studios in town. Emery had a photo of her aura taken at a fundraiser a few months before she died. It was beautiful, so much so that it was on display at her celebration of life. Her face was surrounded by a gradient of violets and blue, fading to white.  The therapists I showed the picture to all responded with amazement at its beauty, adding that the colors indicated she was a very old soul.  I know little to nothing about auras, but I decided I wanted to see what mine was.  Would it be the beautiful violets and blues like Emery’s? Would being the one who gave birth to her ensure I would have some of those pretty colors in my aura?  I chose a nearby Aura Studio, and was escorted to a back room where a woman got me situated with the equipment, and took the photo. A few seconds later, a doorbell rang.  I asked the woman if she needed to answer the door.  She looked confused and told me they didn’t have a doorbell, and she had no idea where the sound came from.  I couldn’t help but think of Emery, but I didn’t say anything.

My aura colors are not violet or blue, and they are not remotely pretty.  My aura is orange—my least favorite color, but also the color that indicates creativity. 

Without giving it much thought, I drove to a second studio, hoping for a different result.  My second aura picture was the same, also orange, which confirmed the legitimacy of the first one. My daughter-in-law, Brooke, later reminded me that aura photography isn’t a situation where one gets to keep having the photo taken until they get the color they want.  I knew she was right, and I also knew that no one would be surprised by what I had done. I wanted to text both photos to Emery, who would echo Brooke’s words and send a laughing emoji in response. I miss that glimmer of connection.


My time in Sedona gave me the tools to a layer of my soul I didn’t know existed. It also reminded me that I was the one holding the map, and always had been. The girl who had lived in Kansas for most of her life was reminded that she held the power all along. It wasn’t as simple as tapping my ruby red slippers together three times to take me home, but it was an understanding of the journey I’m on and will continue to be on for the rest of my life. I’m the one holding the map and sometimes, the pickaxe.


I returned to Boulder and met with an orthopedic surgeon who told me my X-rays were worse than they were three weeks ago. I wasn’t surprised.  He asked me if I had been wearing the boot, without exception, except to sleep, and if I was still not driving. I told him no, I didn’t wear the boot non-stop as it was uncomfortable, and I had driven… “to Sedona, Arizona and home.” I could have told him why my drive to Sedona was so important, but I didn’t. He said the boot was the wrong height and didn’t fit, and wasn’t surprised that I didn’t want to wear it as it was giving me no support. He put me in the taller boot with strict instructions NOT to drive for the next three weeks, at which time he would see me again. Not even to Arizona, he added.  I followed his instructions. 
I had ignored my ankle and listened to my heart instead, as it was the louder voice. I have no regrets. My now bootless ankle is almost healed, and, thankfully, I won’t need surgery. My heart, on the other hand, is not almost healed, nor will it ever be, but I know where the diamonds are, and I’m not afraid of the pickaxe.

Thanking Penny.

Aging, Revisited

Making a wish was before blowing out the 8 candles…August 30, 1963

August, 2025

I don’t usually write a post in honor of my birthday, but I found this essay while going through some writing files, and it resonated with me. As I approach 70, my feelings haven’t changed much from ten years ago.  Emery planned a surprise birthday party for my 50th, in the house we had moved into shortly after I divorced (which was in the middle of a remodel, and my guests were met with a toilet in my entryway).  She also planned my 60th birthday party with my two sisters and her in Crested Butte, Colorado, and was in the process of planning my 70th birthday with my sons and their families at Lake Tahoe.  The Lake Tahoe part didn’t change as I’m there now with my two sons. It’s a big birthday, a difficult first without Emery, and a new decade, but still, I’m celebrating.  Birthdays are a gift.  Life has shown me that over and over again this past year.  And as I slowly unwrap the gift of my soon-to-be 70th decade, I’m holding onto the wisdom from a time when I thought 30 was old and now 60 in hindsight sounds young(ish).

 

Aging and a New Decade (60)

August 2015

When it comes to decade birthdays, my entrance into my 30s and 60s are the two that have had the most impact.  They both felt like I was entering decades of significant change, with 30 being the decade that felt most like my entrance into adulthood, and 60 the decade of being past middle age and entering an age that no one seems to have a comfortable word for besides retired.  Old, which would be on the other side of the scale from young, feels too harsh and, well, too old.  It also holds the sense of urgency of getting things done that thirty had, but the things have changed from marriage, kids and home ownership to volunteer work across the world, walks that are weeks long, not hours long and the bravest of all, letting my gray roots go and changing the hair color on my drivers license to gray (because there is not the more suitable option of silver). 

As I approach 60, I have more of an interest in the person who is struggling with their phone, misunderstands what you’ve said due to hearing loss, often resulting in humor, or is asking about senior discounts while at a 4:00 happy hour, then listing other places that have that if told no.  I watch them with discomfort and curiosity, assuming they must be a lot older than me. But in the back of my mind, I know that someday it will be me, or maybe it already is, and I don’t know it.  

Recently, while at a concert in the park in Frisco, Colorado, I was standing behind an older couple who I’m guessing were at least a decade older than me. The man, armed with the latest iPhone,  was trying to video the band, but was getting frustrated because he kept videoing himself, even though he was holding the phone out in front of him and pointed directly towards the band.  He was in selfie mode, but didn’t realize it. I was close enough to see the videos and the mistake he continued to make, but far enough away that I couldn’t hear the comments he was making to his wife — the wife who had her fingers in her ears.  I guess the music was too loud for her.  I doubt I would have given the whole scenario a second look a few years ago, but now, on the heels of 60, I was having a hard time looking away.  There was so much age-related vulnerability coming into play that I felt compelled to settle into the scene long enough to decide on an appropriate emotion… sadness, frustration, or depression. Although I know how to reverse the camera on my iPhone, I’ve done plenty of things that have had all of my kids rolling their eyes and asking me to hand the phone over so they can “sort me out.”  Technology is moving at a much faster pace than our aging, and given that most technology is only a few decades old for so many of us, being behind the technological eight ball is valid and something we hold in solidarity with those in our same age group. Thankfully, the attitude of caring what others think diminishes a bit, but also thankfully, not entirely.   A little bit of vulnerability keeps us humble, but we traverse a fine line between pride and embarrassment when we expose that side of ourselves.

A few weeks later, while I was still in Colorado and hiking the Hanging Lake trail,  a hike that is so beautiful it’s difficult for me to contain my enthusiasm, I met a lovely couple. We had passed each other enough times on the switchbacks that it felt like it was time to say something. I hate small talk, but I’m good at it.  Each time we passed, my eyes were drawn to her beautiful, long, silver hair. So,  after we stopped and exchanged pleasantries about the views and our joy with being on the hike, I had to mention her hair.  With great enthusiasm, I took off my ball cap with a nod to our sisterhood of silver hair and said,

“Your hair is so amazing….  I’m trying to do the same thing.”

Then I took off my ball cap, turned around to give her a view of the back, to show her it was still a work in progress, as at least eight inches of my hair were still brown.  

Her response had nothing to do with my hair or our silver hair connection; instead, she told me how excited she was to finally be on the hike she had heard so much about.  We met again a few switchbacks later, and I’m not sure if it was the lighting or my exhaustion, but her hair was not silver.  She was blonde.  There was not one strand of silver in that blonde hair of hers.  I cringed at what I had done moments earlier, removing my hat to reveal my sweaty,  two-toned, not at all attractive, hat hair.  I wanted to quietly back down the mountain, never to see them again, but instead began to talk incessantly to cover up my blunder, as a correction.  She was ten years younger than me (I’m guessing, but my guessing is no longer reliable), but at that moment, I felt like I was old enough to be her mother.

I was the man trying to videotape the band, but was videotaping himself instead. They were from New Jersey.  They drove.  It took them two very long days. They spent the first night in Junction City.  She has a fear of heights. They might be married.  They want to move to Colorado.  She has blonde hair, not silver.  Lesson learned.   Hold your enthusiasm until you’re sure you know what you’re talking about, and then wait a few more seconds,  just to be safe.  If you mess up and don’t want to come clean, then talk.  Talk a lot. Five more minutes and we would have been Facebook friends,  another ten and we would have had dinner.

I like to sum up each decade in a few words as to its impact on me. I’m curious as to the event that will mark my 60s.  My 20s were my decade of exploration, marked by mistakes and fearlessness as I unknowingly began to forge my life path.  My 30s were a significant step into adulthood, which at the time meant finishing college (finally), getting married, and having my first child, then my second, and at 35, my third. My decade of change… or so I thought.

My 40s were my decade of letting go of the lead and, by default, letting my children lead.  Their friends’ parents became my friends, and their schedules became my schedules. I loved watching them grow while finding myself in all of them.  Also, with 40 came the significant passage of time and age, as my hair started turning gray, and I did what most of my friends did and made regular appointments to cover it up.

My 50s were another decade of change, much like my 30s.  I got divorced after 20 years of marriage, days before my 50th birthday, and set out on an unknown path,  which had far more forging and exploring than I had anticipated.  I made a lot of mistakes, worried too much, and seemed to learn every lesson the hard way, with the predictable pattern of reactionary hysteria, followed by a slow recovery, and ending with a lot of talking on the phone.  Case in point, the explosion of my water heater a mere two weeks after moving into my new house and my new life.  I’m still thankful that all of my photos, which weren’t in albums, were in plastic boxes.  Nothing was lost, and a whole lot was gained.  That lesson began with me lying in a heap at the bottom of the basement steps, my head in my hands, my strength and courage in another room.  When sump pumps, water heaters, or garage door openers go on the blink, I remember that girl who sobbed in a panic on the bottom step, not knowing who to call or where to turn.  She grew a lot that night.  Life felt unexpectedly hard, but was softened by several of Emery’s friends, armed with dry vacs and encouragement. In the end, I became a lot stronger and added a good plumber to my phone book.

With each decade comes gratitude;  the 6th brings a bit more than the 5th and more than the 4th or 3rd, because that’s how life works.  It’s constantly teaching us if you’re brave enough to pay attention.  Right now, at almost 60 years old, I’m comfortably seated on my cushion of gratitude while I continue to adjust my sails to catch the best wind to carry me forward. It’s a good place to be, and I can’t complain about the view.

August, 2025

Reading these words, almost ten years later, comforts me and brings me to my knees in sadness at what would happen at the end of my 6th decade that I could even begin to imagine. I also didn’t know that it would be the decade of tremendous joy marked by the addition of Katie as my daughter-in-law, five grandchildren, and my move to Boulder.  It would also be my decade that brought a deeper exploration of my writing with workshops all over the world that connected me to people I now consider friends and volunteer travel to several countries that not only helped me discover new cultures, but myself in the process. Sadly, the decade would end with my deepest despair, when in the space of four months, I’d be by both my Dad’s and my daughter’s bedside when they passed.

Aging is truly a privilege. Emery only had 34 years and died a year younger than I was when I gave birth to her. I hold onto that with every new wrinkle, ache, and pain. I don’t want to make predictions about my upcoming decade, but instead, will hold onto every thread of gratitude and love I can find because in the end, that’s all we have, and all that matters.

The Locket

It’s not just a locket that I wear around my neck. It’s a thread of history that connects four lives, two who are no longer living and one with whom I’ve lost touch.  It is the first thing I put on in the morning and the last thing I take off at night.  I wear it around my neck in the same way I wear the silver bangle on my right wrist that was given to me when my grandmother died.  She wore an armful of bangles, all of them divided between my mom, aunt, sisters, and cousins when she died.  I’ve worn it on my wrist ever since.  I was 16. The locket, which moved back and forth from Emery’s closet to mine after she initially discovered it, returned to my neck after she died.  Just like the silver bangle, whose etchings of leaves and vines are almost smooth now after 54 years of wear,  the locket has become a part of me.

The locket was a baby gift that was given to me by a dear friend when Emery was born.  Mothers who give baby gifts to the mother and not the baby understand, and mothers who receive the gift for themselves and not their baby are grateful and appreciative.  I met Donna, the thoughtful giver of the gift, at an exercise class when our firstborns were babies. We were both working on getting rid of the baby fat, which would be harder than we realized, as not long into our weekly exercise classes and friendship, we both discovered that we were pregnant with our second, due within weeks of each other.   We became fast friends who needed each other’s help and support.  

Parenting can be a lonely endeavor, and when the other person in the room, the one you’re retelling the story to, or seeking advice from, is two feet tall and not yet walking, adult company is a treasure.  Donna and I would meet almost daily, entertaining our babies, hers a girl, mine a boy, while sharing notes on our pregnancies.  Our second children, both boys, were born within weeks of each other.  Donna was always my first call in the morning, as we’d make our plans for the day, deciding whose house we’d entertain our toddlers and babies in, eventually graduating to parks, playgrounds, and unique restaurants with quirky themes. We had a lot of energy and optimism and knew that the days with crying babies and rambunctious toddlers were easier when shared.

Too soon after our second babies were born, Donna’s family was transferred back to London, where they had moved from. I was devastated, but we stayed in touch as best we could. Phone calls were expensive and seldom made due to the cost, except in cases of urgent news, such as a pregnancy.  Our calls to each other about our pregnancies with our third child came weeks apart, with mine being first.

When our third babies were just over a year old, hers a boy, mine a girl (Emery), Donna and her family were transferred back to the Kansas City area, and our friendship picked up where it left off.  Donna shared in my joy of having a daughter, and in celebration of Emery’s birth, she gifted me a locket that she had found in an antique store in London.  I loved the idea of a locket and remember as a child being fascinated by the necklaces that held the secret of tiny photos tucked inside.  I found pictures of Emery and me, both at a year old, and tucked them into the small ovals and wore it daily.  

Donna’s third, James, and Emery became playmates who shared many coffee dates with Donna and me while our older children were in preschool. They played well together.  Life was good, and I had my dear friend back, at least for a while. 

When Emery was in preschool, Donna moved again, this time to Canada.  It was another difficult goodbye for me, and our communication waned as our youngest children started school and life moved on.  Phone calls were expensive, and there never seemed to be enough time to finish a thought, let alone a letter, but I thought of Donna and her three children often.

When James was 17, Donna called me with the very unexpected news that James had passed away unexpectedly from rare complications from the flu.  I was devastated and couldn’t imagine the pain she was in.  Emery and I spent hours culling through photos of her and James, while recalling the many stories and memories shared. There were many photos, as I almost always had a camera around my neck for the “just in case” moments.  Donna and I had a lengthy conversation on the phone, but I was at a loss for words.  What do you say to a mother whose child has died?  I wrote her letters. I sent her photos, but nothing felt significant in the acknowledgment of the weight she was carrying.

Emery discovered the locket in my jewelry box and started wearing it, hoping that because of proximity, it would eventually become hers.  This was a trait she came by honestly. I had done the same thing with a ring of my mom’s that I took out of her jewelry box and started wearing because I liked it.  Eventually, she gave me the ring, much to the dismay of my sisters, who were more honest than I was in their approach to obtaining items they liked. 

Emery wore the locket a lot when she was pregnant with Arlo, her first child. She tole me that the sentimentality that came with her soon-to-be role as a mom made the locket feel more significant to her.  After Arlo was born, I made it official and told her the locket was hers. No more borrowing and no more on loan. It was my gift to her, mother to mother. I loved seeing that bit of history around her neck.  

Shortly after Emery died, Miles told me he wanted the locket to go back to its original owner,  back to where it had started.  His gesture touched me deeply, as we both knew how important it was to Emery and how hard it must have been for him to give it up so soon after she died.  I was driving back to Kansas City the following day, and I knew that wearing it would feel like a talisman around my neck, a protector when I needed all the protection I could get. After he gave it to me, I waited until I was in my car to open it up.  I assumed Emery would have changed out our photos for a photo of Arlo and Muna, but when I opened it, I cried.  There in the little ovals of the locket were the black and white photo of me and the color photo of Emery; two little girls, a generation apart.

Every piece of jewelry I wear has a story and a history behind it, most that I’ve worn for decades.  I wear history on my body that has meaning to me.  The locket is on a long chain and falls below the necklace I’ve worn for over 13 years, which I started wearing when I began solo hiking in Colorado.  The words Protect this Woman are imprinted around a small silver disc with a piece of turquoise in the center.  Superstition, habit, or simply my love of the necklace has kept it around my neck.  It now shares its space with the locket — a carrier of photos, a mother and a daughter, along with the memory of a relationship that came out of our roles as mothers and developed into a dear friendship of love and the unexpected connection of loss.

Almost every time I see my granddaughter, Muna, she asks me, “Can I see the little girls in the necklace?” And so I open the locket, and she gives me the same response she gave me the last time I opened it for her. “You are the girl with the curly hair,  and the other girl is Mama.”  Someday, I want to tell her, but don’t, you will wear it around your neck. You will open it to share the tiny photos that are inside.  You’ll share it with your family or friends, or maybe a random stranger seated next to you who is curious. If it feels right, you’ll tell them who the girls are, then will quietly tuck the locket into your shirt, where it will lie next to your heart; next to your memories and the many stories that have been told to you about the two little girls, one your Mama and one your Laudie, and the strong connection of love between the three of you.

Dear Emery, February 4, 2025

Screenshot

One thing I’ve learned over the past seven months about grief is the effect it has on the brain.  I’ve gone through periods of not being able to watch movies or read books because I couldn’t follow even the simplest of plot lines.  I’ve had conversations with people I don’t remember, made appointments I didn’t remember, and forgot to show up to appointments because I forgot to look at my calendar. Things happened in the first few months after Emery died that I wouldn’t have known if someone hadn’t told me.  Recently, while trying to organize my writing folders on my computer, I came across a letter I wrote to Emery on February 4th,  one month after she died.  I wrote it while staying in Portland at Thomas and Brooke’s house.  I remember little about that trip, except for a lot of sleeping and taking a few short walks in Hoyt Arboretum with Thomas. I didn’t remember writing the letter, but I thought it would become familiar when I read it.  It wasn’t.  It was as if I was reading what someone else had written for the first time.  It made me cry.

On the 7th month anniversary of Emery’s death, I decided to share the letter (I don’t like the word anniversary as it feels too celebratory to me, but I’m not sure what else to call the collection of dates that have marked the time).  My grief edges have softened somewhat since I wrote the letter,  but I still carry the same ache of sadness and grief that I did when I wrote it, one month out.  My words matched my scattered emotions, and as I reread them, a clear picture of someone trying to come up for air but going deeper and deeper into the water emerged.  I wanted to edit it, clean it up, choose different words, but decided to let it stand as it was — a snapshot of my heart and soul in recovery mode.

February 4, 2025

Dear Emery,

One month ago today, at 11:38 am Mountain time, you left us.  It feels like forever ago and like yesterday at the same time. Time has lost its meaning, as has so much else in my life.  The grief of your death is so deeply woven into who I am right now and who I am becoming. I don’t recognize myself.  My heart is in pain, and my physical body is showing that pain.  I’m exhausted, my body aches, and I’ve aged ten years in a month. All I want to do is sleep. I look forward to crawling under the covers, whether at night or during the day, because those are hours of escape for me.  Since you died, I have woken up almost every night at 1:00 am.  My sobbing wakes me, and I have a desperate need to hug you, to have you be alive, for just a few more moments. It feels like a plea to a greater power…just one more moment, one more hug, one more telling you I love you. And then I wipe the tears from my face and fall back to sleep again.  

So often during the day (and night), I think of things I want to tell you; usually, random thoughts that come to mind.   I still reach for my phone to text you.  I should text them to myself, but I don’t because without you on the other end of the text, sending back a laughing emoji or responding with the name of the person, the restaurant, the brand of clothing, or you telling me why you disagree, there’s no reason.  My random thoughts no longer get a response, so I keep them to myself.  I had no idea, and why would I, the vacuum that would be left in your absence.  I don’t know what to do with it or how to fill it.  I know, it’s only been a month, and my job right now is to feed myself, sleep, and breathe, and that feels like enough right now. My heart broke when you died, sweetheart,  and right now, sitting in bed in Thomas and Brooke’s wonderful guest suite (that I’m so sorry you never saw), I don’t feel like it will ever be OK again. Honestly, that is terrifying to me —terrifying that I may feel like this for the rest of my life.  Life feels so hard.

I miss you desperately… your wisdom, humor, advice, and reminders that we should all lead with kindness and love.  Watching you in your role as Arlo and Muna’s Mama gave me such pride, and I saw a lot of myself in your parenting, although you did it with far more patience than I did. Muna is so much like you in both her appearance and her personality, and sometimes I feel like I’m looking at five-year-old you all over again.

I love you dearly, and I know you knew that, but still… did I say it enough?  Show it enough?  Yes, you’d tell me.  You did, Mom, and I love you too, and it is because of that love that the grief now is almost unbearable. You’d tell me to give purpose and meaning to my grief. Give it words, you’d remind me that my words are my strength, and how I make sense of the world. You would tell me what I need to know and already know because you know my heart.

Thomas and Grant are holding me up, Emery.  I lost my daughter, but I haven’t forgotten that they lost their sister. It makes me sad that I’ve been unable to help them as much as I should as their mom, as they also have broken hearts. We became a cocoon of love and support in Boulder after you died, and are still cocooning, even though we are not all in the same place.  We need each other so much in your absence.

I long for one last hug.  Your Dad told me when we said goodbye to you on the morning of January 4th, it didn’t feel right to leave you without hugging.  He was right. We always hugged when we left each other.  It’s impossible for me to think that it will never happen again.  When did I last hug you?  I think it had to be on Christmas, as you didn’t want me near you once you were back in Boulder. You had the flu and didn’t want me to catch it.  I kept my distance.  I wore a mask.

I will always be confused by your death.  We all are.  You were glowing and happy and full of life on Christmas, even though you couldn’t hide your sadness as I know you missed your Grandpa.   Six days later, I’d watch paramedics take you out of your house on a stretcher to an ambulance that waited in your driveway.  

I think of you with your beautiful eyes, ridiculously long lashes, and your smile.  Oh that smile… I also think of you in the bed in the ICU at St. Joseph, hooked up to machines and intubated.   I wish I didn’t.  When I first started replaying those short and very long 2 1/2 days, with you hooked up to machines that were keeping you alive, I hoped with each recollection that maybe the ending would be different.  Magical thinking, I suppose, but the ending never changed. As your Mom, I wanted to take your place, take the moments of fear you had as you tried to breathe, even with an oxygen mask on.  I used to tell you I’d step in front of a moving train to save your life — something you didn’t understand until you had children, and when you did, we never talked about that, because why would we?  I’m sure you would have said the same thing about Arlo and Muna. And yet, there you were, in a bed in a hospital in Denver, and I couldn’t do anything but softly touch the small part of your arm that was free from tubes and needles, while you lay in a bed, intubated and sedated.  That train was coming down the tracks, and I couldn’t step in front of it to save you.  Nor could Miles, your Dad, Thomas, or Grant, but we tried in our words to you and our words to a greater power.

I know this will not be the last letter I write to you, because you feel closer to me when I write, but not getting a response will be hard. It’s another I will have to endure.

I love you, my darling girl. So very deeply.

Mom

Rainbows

Frisco, Colorado August 2013

Boulder, Colorado, July 2025

I am awed by the power of a rainbow…how it stops people for a brief moment to look up to the sky in wonder as if seeing one for the first time. It’s a deep sigh, a collective awe, and for a moment, nothing else matters but the arched prism of light in the sky. I’m one of those people. It feels mandatory to me, like I will be missing something if I don’t. Because I will.

A few weeks ago, on a day that was particularly difficult for me, I was in a restaurant with Arlo, Muna, and dear friends of Emery’s, having dinner, when the rain started coming down in sheets. It ended in a matter of minutes, as it often does in Colorado, and the sun came out with a different brightness than before the rain. When the light in the restaurant shifted, Arlo and Muna abandoned their hamburgers to run outside for a look. Moments later, Arlo came running back into the restaurant and said, “Laudie, come quick! Your dream has come true!” And as quickly as he ran in, he was gone again as he didn’t want to miss one second. My grandson knows me well; he’s Emery’s son after all. I followed him to where Muna stood, dripping wet with her eyes fixed on the sky in awe of the beautiful rainbow forming above my favorite coffee shop on Pearl Street. I held back tears as I looked back and forth to Emery’s two children and the rainbow that had stopped them in their tracks. I was looking at more than a rainbow. Because of its perfection in timing, and being with the right people when it appeared, it will be a rainbow in a long line-up of rainbows that I will remember.

My history with rainbows began in Colorado. Maybe I saw them before, when I was living in northern Missouri as a young child, or in Olathe, Kansas, but they weren’t memorable, and I was too young to remember rainbows when I lived in Evergreen, Colorado. Or maybe I didn’t care about rainbows then like I do now. Rainbows for me have always meant Colorado to me.

Several years ago, before I bought a place in Frisco, Colorado, I rented a condo for two months, not with any intention of buying a place but instead to heal through hiking after a difficult breakup. Emery flew out from Kansas City to drive home with me at the end of my stay. We hadn’t seen each other for two months, so were anxious for ten hours of catch-up time on the road trip home.

On our last night in Frisco, we went out to dinner at one of the small restaurants on Main Street, I had come to love and wanted to share with Emery. Midway through our dinner, it started raining hard. After a few minutes, the rain stopped, and the sun came out, casting an early evening light that was even brighter than before. Experiencing rainstorms that move in and out quickly are common in Colorado, but this rainstorm was followed by something I had never seen before. It wasn’t what was forming in the sky after the rainfall, but rather what was happening inside the restaurant. There was a mass exodus to the sidewalk out in front. Waitresses set down trays of hot food, customers left their meals, and even the cook came out and took his place in the line-up of people forming on the sidewalk. When I asked someone what was going on, she shouted as she made her way to the door, “Rainbow!” And so Emery and I left our dinners and followed, falling into the line-up of people on the sidewalk with their necks craned to the sky, witnessing the spectacular rainbow forming after the storm. I had never seen anything like it. Time stopped. We stood shoulder to shoulder on the sidewalk, our eyes to the sky in awe. It was a gift, both in the presence of the arch of color in the sky, and in it being significant enough to stop people from what they were doing to witness it and share the energy of Mother Nature without explanation. I was awed by the awe. After a few moments, everyone returned to their tables, trays and cookstove, resuming where they had left off. Emery and I looked at each other with wide eyes and nodding heads as we tried to grasp what had just happened. In later years, when we would see a rainbow together, one of us would always ask, “Remember that night in Frisco?” And the other, before the sentence had been completed, would answer, “Yes. I sure do. Pure magic.” It became the benchmark by which all other rainbow moments were measured.

In the same way that Emery and I evacuated our dinner that night in Frisco, Arlo and Muna had done the same, bringing me into their experience. I loved that they held the same awe and curiosity with rainbows that their mama and I had. It was one more thread of connection. One more thread of Emery that would continue with them.

I held that moment, next to my grandchildren, Emery’s children, while we stood on the wet sidewalk, and looked to the sky while our food got cold. I felt Emery’s presence and I know Arlo and Muna did as well.

When we got back inside the restaurant, I noticed Arlo’s T-shirt. It had a rainbow on it. I told him I thought his shirt might have brought us good luck. He nodded with confidence and said, “Yes, I know that, Laudie. I got your rainbow with my shirt.”

I’m relieved that my growing-up-too-quickly-only grandson still holds the magic in the way he sees the world. Several months ago, his class was making Mother’s Day gifts. The teacher gave him the opportunity not to participate, but he told her he wanted to, even though his mama had died. She told the students it would take a few days to complete and asked them not to tell their mothers, as it was meant to be a surprise. Arlo told her that it would be a problem, as his mom already knew because she was always with him. I was deeply touched by those words when they were shared with me – sweet and bittersweet. I thought about that while standing next to Arlo and Muna looking at the rainbow, and knew that Emery was with us, sharing the moment. It felt like a little bit of comfort, but mostly it felt like love.

While I was going through my photos in search of the Frisco rainbow photo for this piece, I came across this gem. Emery wrote it in the book we had at Dad’s celebration of life last September. I had completely forgotten about it. Things appear when I need to see them. Rainbows just become a little more special to me.

The Not So Sad Stuff That Also Happened

Beautiful, big sky Montana

38 steps to my bed, but worth every booted step.

Life hasn’t been all sad, all the time, contrary to what I have written since January.   

A few weeks ago, I stayed in a tree house, and it was not sad.  My extended family was vacationing at a ranch in Montana —  22 in total, including 8 children ranging in age from 1 to 15 years.  I was the only one in our group who had stairs in their accommodations, 38 to be exact, and the only one with compromised mobility (at the time, I was still with the broken ankle, still with the boot).  Steps and all, I still think I had the best accommodations. Every single step of the tight spiral staircase, 20 to the main living area with floor-to-ceiling windows, a fireplace, and a bathroom with a soaking tub surrounded by windows that looked out onto trees, and 18 up to my bedroom, was worth it.  

Technically, it wasn’t a tree house, as it wasn’t situated in a tree, but was surrounded by trees and built on metal pylons that lifted it at least a story.  It had a treehouse feeling inside, with wide-plank wooden floors and floor-to-ceiling walls of glass.  In the evenings, while I was at dinner, housekeeping would lower the shades.  The first night I came home after dinner and saw the shades lowered, I was annoyed, as it no longer felt like a tree house. I spent the next several minutes raising the shades in the bedroom so I could look out at the trees, as it was still light out, even at almost 10:00 pm.  The moon was full, and after lying in bed for a few minutes, I understood why the shades had been lowered. It felt like a light had been left on with the brightness of the moon.  And so I began the process of lowering the shades to their previous position.  When I woke up, the process was repeated in reverse, one shade at a time.

My boot limited the activities I could do, but I was able to participate in the go-karts as a passenger with my son, Thomas, as the driver.  My doctor said no driving (the booted ankle is my right ankle), and I’m sure he would have also said no to go-karts in the same way he told me no to hiking, even after I added I’d only choose easy hikes.

After maneuvering my way into the low cart, Thomas helped me attach my seatbelt, a moment of reverse roles that took me back in time.  There have been more of those moments recently, in part because my sons have been taking such care with me in my grief and because I’m a grandma to their children, and with that comes comments like “Here, let me get that, Mom, or Do you think you should be doing that?”   It’s sweet, but also difficult because accepting help is not easy for me. I wanted to race around the track as the driver of the go-kart, waving to my sons as I passed them. I’m navigating a lot of new territory these days, and I’m doing it with a broken ankle, so yes, Thomas and Grant, you can carry the suitcase, the bag of groceries, the chair, and you can be the driver.  Thank you.

On one of our last days, our gang was shuttled by vans and then by a pontoon boat to a private island on a beautiful lake, where we spent the day. We had access to jet skis, kayaks, and stand-up paddle boards, as well as incredible views, all of which were off-limits to me, except for the views.  I enjoyed watching my boys from a front-row seat as they rode the jet skis.  I thought back to family reunions on Lake Barkley in Kentucky.  Being an observer rather than a participant also brought back memories of my grandparents at the city pool, watching Robin, Susan, and me swim from their spots on the opposite side of the fence, where they wouldn’t have to pay to get in. Their days at the pool with us always seemed to fall on the hottest, most humid day of the year…Kansas in August.  Grandma was always in a dress, usually dark, and Papa in a dress shirt and slacks, no tie.  They looked hot and miserable but would give us big smiles after watching us go off the diving board or do tricks in the water.

I was Grandma that day at the island, although I was wearing a swimsuit and not a dark, past-the-knee dress with hose rolled up and knotted just below the knee.  I waved, commented, took photos, and asked one of the staff who was eager to be busy for an iced tea because I wanted to give them something to do.  I told Brooke, my daughter-in-law, who was seated next to me, that as I watched Thomas and Grant, they became the grade school version of themselves on the dock at our family farm, where we’d spend many Sundays.  Although as adults they weren’t arching their backs and peeing into the water, with Emery right next to them doing the same thing while peeing down her legs, they were those two boys, and my heart grew two sizes watching them.  It also mourned for them that their sister wasn’t standing next to them.

We celebrated the 4th of July with an old-fashioned barbecue, followed by games and fireworks, although none of us saw them because in that part of Montana, it wasn’t dark until after 10:30. We heard them, though.  My grandchildren, with the exception of the two youngest, lined up enthusiastically for all activities —  sack races, the three-legged races, the mechanical bull, and a pie-eating contest, which for children was fruit and whipped cream in a bowl. It feels clichéd to say, but it was “good, old-fashioned fun,” and as their grandma, my fun was watching them race with their legs tied together or in a sack, or eating “pie” without utensils.  I am my grandma, sans the dress and the hose knotted below the knee.  I’m also probably ten years older than she was when I was my grandchildren’s age and she sat on the other side of the swimming pool fence, fanning herself and insisting she wasn’t hot.

We missed Emery.  She was the thread that ran through so many conversations and thoughts. 

We enjoyed a family chuck wagon dinner next to a river one evening, and as Thomas, Grant, and I stood at the river’s edge, Grant said, “Remember that time…” He didn’t have to finish.  We all knew what he was going to say.  “The time in Colorado when Thomas fell into the Snake River?” Granted, it was shallow, but it was cold and scary for all of us.  To that, I added, “And do you remember the pink girl’s bike we saw lying at the river’s edge and the story you both told Emery about the little girl who was riding it and fell off into the river? They did. Brothers being brothers.  It’s one of the reasons Emery was so strong and fearless.  I loved that the same memory came to all of our minds at the exact same time, and I know Emery would have been right there with us, also thinking about Thomas’s fall into the river.  Maybe she was…in the rush of the water, in the trees, in the birds flying overhead, and in her Mom and her two brothers’ recollection of our family vacation in Colorado and that pink bike on the banks with the made-up story that went with it. 

On the 4th of July, each home was given a white flag, paints, and brushes for a flag decorating contest that night. All of the grandchildren, except the one-year-old, gathered on the porch and got to work on the blank canvas. It was painted without a plan or design, but with great enthusiasm.  Our flag, which involved no parental participation short of the cleanup, flew alongside the others, many of which looked like they had been created by a graphic designer.  I told one of my granddaughters we hadn’t heard yet if we won or not, and  she said, “Laudie, I’m sure we didn’t because ours was a mess.”  But was it fun? I asked. “Yes.  It was a fun mess.”

Our family’s flag didn’t win.

We missed her.  We missed her with every fiber of our collected being, but we also had fun, laughed, told stories, and ate too many s’mores. 

Grief waxes and wanes but never leaves the room.  It does, however, slow the pace enough that things that would have gone unnoticed before now catch my attention. 

On our last day, Brooke, Katie, Lilah, Muna, and I made individualized body and hand cream at the spa.  We were seated outside, with the beautiful backdrop of the Montana sky and mountains surrounding us, and jars with oils and herbs in front of us. The employee who guided us in our creations had laid out four jars of herbs in the center of the table and asked if we knew what each one was by their scent. Muna knew all of them were without hesitation.  The employee was surprised by her knowledge. Brooke told her that she was the daughter of an herbalist. Muna sat up a little taller.  We all did.  As we began the process of adding the herbs, oils, and scents into our individual jars, Brooke pointed out something I hadn’t noticed: a red-tailed hawk had joined us, circling as we incorporated our knowledge of herbs that we got from Emery into the small jars in front of us.  

We felt her presence in her absence.

Keeper of the Stories, Guardian of the Memories

Some of the stories…

I’ve kept journals for as long as I can remember.  Most of them have January 1 as their first entry and trail off mid-March or so, leaving half of the journal blank. I’m a Virgo.  I like January starts, new journals, pens fresh from the pack, and the hope that comes with blank pages and intact spines. My journal entries, brimming with enthusiasm on January 1, usually fade by spring.  When the next year rolls around, I start all over again with new journals, because I don’t like starting fresh in an old journal.  That has left me with a box filled with quarter-to-half-filled journals. The writing never stops though, but the journaling takes a break, at least until January.  I’ve found I prefer writing on my computer, but still love the idea of a journal and continue to buy them. I’m the family-appointed, self-proclaimed keeper of the stories in my family.  I’d be hard-pressed to put my hands on last year’s personal property tax bill, but I can tell you when and where Thomas lost his first tooth and how long my friend, Cath, and I swam around the bottom of the shallow end of the pool in search of it. We came home without a tooth, but recounted the story in a letter that went under his pillow instead.

The only journals I’ve filled are the ones about my children, all of them beginning on the day I saw a plus sign on the pregnancy test.  When I look at them now, I see them as a monumental task, yet one that was met with ease for me, as writing about my children always came easily. Daily entries, even when time was scarce, felt endlessly important because they were of the moment. If I didn’t capture the moments when they happened, I was afraid I would forget them.  In rereading a few of the journals recently, I was right, some of the most memorable ones, I had forgotten.

Within the pages of sleepless nights, long days with short tempers, and the many recorded firsts are the gems that have become threads to a growing blanket of memories that offer me warmth, security, and the all-important laughs. The value the pages hold for me today is immeasurable.

Yesterday, I found this:

Thomas, age 7

“Wouldn’t the world be a nice place to live in if everybody had the personality of  Emery?  She’s always so happy.”

Those words hold far more weight today than they did in 1993, when Emery was three.  I didn’t write my response to what Thomas had said, but I am guessing it was an enthusiastic yes, because I knew he was right.  And today, I can confirm that with everything I have.  Emery was happy, in a way that was deeper than her outside expression.  People were drawn to her joy and warmth. 

There is an overriding theme of letting go that began in my journals and progressed into letters I wrote to my children, especially with Emery, as she was my last. I’m writing the same words now, but through the lens of loss, disorientation, and an unrelenting battle with reality.

High School Graduation, 2009:

     From the time the technician with the sonogram monitor in front of her told me you were a girl, I knew you.  I knew your energy because it was my energy, and I could feel it while you grew inside of me.  I knew your eyes would be curious and your hair wild, and we’d connect on things that were so ridiculous that they’d not even be worth trying to explain to other people.  I knew you would sing made-up lyrics with poorly executed accents in between sips of tea from imaginary cups while we got gritty, sweaty, and happy in the sandbox.   I knew that because I could feel it.  The little girl in me was anxious for you to come out and play with the little girl in me.  

What I didn’t know was the pain that would come when I’d have to let you go and find your duets with other people who were not me.  It is what I had been preparing for all along, yet now that it is really happening, I feel like I’ve forgotten the wings part of my teachings and can only remember the roots, and that the whole process is making my heart hurt.

Maybe it’s not that unusual for mothers to express fears of separation from their child, from the first day of school to the emptying of the nest.  The letting go is hard because it means unlearning all that I have intuitively known about being a mom from the moment I saw the plus sign on the pregnancy test.  First, I held my babies to feed them or comfort them or because I didn’t want to set them down. Then, I held their hands while trying to keep them safe and close by. Finally, I held their things, as moms always do, even after telling them not to bring what they couldn’t carry.  They’d ask with drawn-out e’s in their please, and I’d shake my head no, as I hoisted more cargo to my already full arms because I’m a mom and that’s what moms do.

Unknowingly, I had started letting go the first time I held on because that is how life and love work.  How could I have known that the words I wrote about my fears of letting go would go much farther than my tearful goodbyes on Emery’s first day of school? Or unloading overly filled cars with far too many clothes for a small dorm room closet, then driving home and not seeing her car in my rearview mirror,  both of us missing each other before I even pulled out of the dorm parking?  Or seeing her walk down the aisle, towards her soon to be husband on her wedding day?  Letting go, one moment at a time, is what I did.  It’s what every parent does. Until January 4th, when I had to let go for the last time, yet my arms are still holding on six months later.  The missing that I will endure for a lifetime is the gift I’ve been given for having loved so fiercely and so deeply.  As a mom, as Emery’s mom, I would rather miss her than have her miss me.  It is the last pain I can carry for her because I couldn’t step in front of the metaphorical moving train to save her.

Holding on while letting go is a balancing act I’m trying to learn.  Right now,  I’m just trying not to fall and break my other ankle.   Grief has rewritten my map of the world, and I’m learning to find my journey between the past and what comes next, all while remembering how to move when so much inside of me has stopped. I’m purposely getting lost while asking my purpose to find me.

On an ordinary day, at the beginning of a year that ended in a five, which are usually lucky for me, the unthinkable happened. Ordinary turned to tragedy, and there I stood, in the mess of it all, knowing with certainty that January 4th had become the day that would be my marker of before and after.  It is the forever marker to all who loved Emery.

I write daily letters to Emery with my morning coffee. I write to obtain clarity.   I write to share what I would have texted or called her about.  I write to unburden myself.  I write to understand and to discover who I am and the journey I’m on.  In those early childhood journals, I wrote to remember, but also to remind myself that I was a mom and a very good mom.  My reasons for writing haven’t changed, but has grown to include my ongoing understanding of grief and that it is not to be feared or avoided or ashamed of, but rather, it is to be embraced, as its origins are love. I need to welcome it while feeling its sting, and offer it a place at my table, with a cup of tea or a shot of tequila, depending.

My words have been collected in books I’ve made, in journals, on sheets of paper that sit in piles in a large trunk, and on my computer.  Someday, I will gather them all up and put them in one place, but for now, I find what I need when I need it rather serendipitously. 

March, 2009 

 On our flight home from Peru, after a month of volunteering and three weeks of travel (Emery’s reason to graduate from high school a semester early), Emery said,

“No one else will ever understand the value of our time in Peru, Mom, and how it changed us,  but at least we will always have each other to carry the memory and when the time comes, when we need to, we will share it together.”

As the guardian of those stories and so many others we shared, I will preserve every laugh, every tear, and every moment of wonder for Arlo, Muna, and everyone else who loves Emery. Our stories are my treasure, and I will safeguard them in my heart, and when I can’t remember what I’ve forgotten, I’ll find them in the notebooks and computer files where they live.  They are me.  They are who I am, who I was, and who I am becoming.