Category: Emery

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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. 

Most people would tell me it was a terrible idea.  I did it anyway.  I would probably say the same thing to someone who was in the stage of grief that I’m in, that watching Steel Magnolias would not be considered a good idea.  Not now.  And maybe, not ever. I could hear both of my sisters saying, “Seriously, Laur?  Do you really think that’s a good idea?”  And I’d say yes, but in a voice so high-pitched that they’d know I wasn’t sure.  I did it anyway. 

It was released in theaters in 1989, when I had a three-year-old and a two-year-old, and going to the movies was out of the question, unless it was animated and less than an hour long and even that was iffy. When the movie eventually made its way to television, I had three children, more chaos, and no time to indulge in movie watching. The wedding preparations at the beginning of the movie were familiar, but nothing else.  I’m guessing I started watching, but turned it off when one of my three children needed me and never returned to it.  It’s probably not the only movie that I didn’t finish.

I didn’t go into this blindly.  I knew the ending, but only learned about it recently.  I met with a friend a few months after Emery died, and was trying to describe to him the huge swing of emotions I had been going through, from deep sadness to raging anger, never knowing which one would hit and when. He told me there was no way he could possibly understand, as he hadn’t experienced what I had, then asked me if I had seen the movie Steel Magnolias.  I told him I wasn’t sure, but that I guessed someone died in it.  He confirmed my guess, then got out his phone and started scrolling. He told me he was sending me a video but didn’t want me to watch it until I got home.  I don’t always follow instructions when it involves waiting, but I did as it didn’t seem like something I should be watching at a stoplight.

Once home, I sat on my couch and pulled up the video.  It was Sally Field’s deeply emotional scene with her girlfriends in the cemetery. Although I hadn’t seen Steel Magnolias in its entirety, I knew what I was watching was the crux of the movie and likely the scene that most viewers remembered.  It not only showed the raw grief of a mother dealing with the death of her daughter, but also the beautiful bond she had with her friends as they gathered around her to offer support with love and unexpected humor.  The scene brought me to my knees.  The anguish and heartbreaking grief on display were so familiar, and that familiarity gave me comfort.  I watched it again. I sobbed again.  I didn’t feel so alone in my emotions.  

A few years ago, after discovering the book Bittersweet: How Sorrow and Longing Make Us Whole, by Susan Cain, I was relieved to know that my tendency to seek comfort and relief in what some might call the “dark side” was a recognizable trait that was neither crazy nor due to depression.  The book validated my love of rainy days, gloomy music, and sad movies, not because of a depressed mood, but rather, because that is where I can connect deeply to my soul.  It makes sense that I wanted to watch Steel Magnolias in its entirety after seeing the brief clip. I needed the connection.

I have friends who have lost children, but I don’t know anyone who has lost a child who had children. Sally Field’s character, M’Lynn, had a daughter who died, and her daughter had a son.    I knew she was playing a role and it was not real life, but as I watched through my tears, I found a relatable connection, and in that moment, it was no longer fictitious.  It was as real as the tears that flowed down my cheeks, and I found solace in our shared experience.

Her words were my words. 

“We turned off the machines…I just sat there.  I just held Shelby’s hand.  No noise.  No tremble.  Just peace.  Oh God, I realized, as a woman, how lucky I am.  I was there when that wonderful creature drifted into my life, and I was there when she drifted away.  It was the most precious moment in my life….I’m so mad, I don’t know what to do. I want to know why.  I want to why Shelby’s life is over.  I want to know how that baby will ever know how wonderful his mother was.  I want to know why.  I wish I could understand. No.  No.  It’s not supposed to happen this way.  I’m supposed to go first. I was always ready to go first.  I don’t think I can take this.”  (Sally Field’s monologue in the cemetery scene from Steel Magnolias.)

I couldn’t help but wonder how many others in the thirty-five-some years since the movie came out had sat through that scene with the same reaction of deep anguish, laced with a sense of comfort in the shared pain that I had? The constellation of my life forever changed in 2 1/2 days. Trying to make sense of that and my existence without Emery has become the tapestry that all of my life is now woven into.  

I recognized Sally Field’s words, even when she checked her hair in a compact mirror and acknowledged that her daughter was right and her hair looked like a brown football helmet.  I understood and I laughed because Emery had once made the same comparison with my hair and she was right.

Grief is a homing device that finds its way to other grief because that’s where the comfort lies. I don’t seek out the sad movies that mimic what I’m going through, but sometimes they find me, if only for a five-minute monologue. I’ve returned to that clip countless times, not because I want to sob uncontrollably, but because it feels like company to me.  And when you’re going through the hardest thing you’ve ever been through in your life, company with someone doing the same thing is what you want.