Category: Grief

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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