Bye-Bye, Fiona

It was time. We both felt it. Here’s our story.

Before the COVID-19 pandemic began, my husband and I decided to purchase a small travel trailer for some enjoyable camping trips. Camping here in the Midwest, though, is quite different from our time in California. We owned two campers while our kids were small. A tiny one that I found and refurbished, then sold to buy a bigger one. We have many wonderful memories of camping in coastal and mountain areas. Warm beach days to cool summer nights by the campfire.

Fast forward to moving to Ohio. Rain, rain, and more rain. We did try tent camping, as we still had lots of equipment. We tried it once. Then gave everything away. No more camping for us!

Until seven years ago, when we bought a super cute little travel trailer called a Vintage Cruiser—new but made to look old —she was the cutest thing ever! I named her Cora. Cora the Cruiser. Torquise appliances, and cute little curtains. What’s not to love? Well, size for one thing. She was a great weekend warrior, but we took her once on a two-week camping trip, and after two weeks and lots of rain, we decided to upgrade. I needed more space!

Along came Fiona. She was amazing. The best floor plan ever. Recliners, fold-out sofa bed, luxury shower, and a very nice master bedroom. We could and did go for a month at a time. For five years, we traveled from Michigan to Quebec. We went down to DC, and everywhere in between. We loved it. We pulled her with a big, beautiful Expedition and had a very comfortable time camping, or, as It Turned Out, Glamping. 

One day, though, things changed. We left for a camping trip, very excited, full of plans. It turned out to be excessively hot (we were under a heat dome), our poor little Fiona could not keep up with the heat index of over 100 degrees, and she became a hot box! So now what do we do? We had our dog with us, and we were hot and grumpy; we couldn’t keep cool, and we weren't having fun! After much discussion, we realized our camping days were coming to an end.

Neither of us wanted to give in to that mindset. Gosh darn it, we were having fun!  Weren’t we?  No, we weren’t. As we talked, we realised we had camped in all the places we wanted to, we had seen the sights, we had done the things. It was time. It's time to admit that we weren't enjoying camping. We (okay, I) wanted to drive a smaller SUV, one that I could park, and also, hotels were looking mighty good. 

So, one morning I put her up for sale and the next—she was sold. And, just like that, we were minus a travel trailer and Fiona was gone. We have so many incredible memories, countless photos, and have had countless fun times with our grandkids. However, our time as campers for now has come to an end. 

Will we ever buy another RV? Perhaps, one day. Not anytime soon, though. For now, we will travel by car or plane, and we will stay in hotels or Bed and Breakfasts. We will cherish our memories and be grateful for our camping days. 

Fiona’s new parents already love her. I’m praying for their future memories…may they be as wonderful as ours. 

While in Portugal

We had two weeks in Portugal. So many things to do, see, and eat! So, we did just that, we did everything! We started our adventure in Lisbon. We stayed in the upscale shopping area (Avenida da Liberdade), in fact a block behind Louis Vuitton, and I was not sorry. Cute little restaurants and cafes surrounded us. And also, all the major shops. We found that in Lisbon, we needed an Uber or Bolt to get around the city. It wasn't nearly as walkable as we thought it would be. So, while in our little neighborhood, we walked, and when we wanted to visit others, we Ubered. 

My favorite thing to do in Lisbon was the tuk-tuk ride. For two hours, we were hauled all over the city center, up and down curvy, tiny streets, and into neighborhoods that we would not have known existed. I loved the old part of Alfama. We stopped and took many photos. Additionally, we made note of the places we wanted to revisit and explore. We looked at pottery and tiles, visited some open-air markets, and enjoyed the small custard tarts. We got espressos, shopped, and had a blast. We heard about a place called the FX Factory, which was incredibly fun, featuring local artisans and fun eateries. I highly recommend it. 

One day, we took an 8-hour tour to the little mountain town of Sintra and visited several castles. All of which were amazing. We had lunch at a charming local spot. On our own, we might not have chosen it, but because of our tour guide, we liked it very much. I wish we had carved out more time for Sintra, though; it was adorable. 

And then, of course, as a big tourist, I had to ride tram 28. Was it worth it? Yes, it was. I never wanted to get off. It was awesome, and navigating the tight little streets was a lot of fun. We actually decided to take a few more tram rides on different trams after that. 

Lisbon offers excellent food, impressive trams, and beautiful tile.

Now on to Porto. I liked Porto better. I liked the vibe, the walkability, and the people. It was just different. 

In Porto, we rented a little apartment in the Bolhao neighborhood. It came with daily cleaning, which we appreciated, and also included a unique feature. It came with a basket breakfast! Each morning, we received a basket full of coffee, juice, protein, bread, and fruit. It was a true highlight for me. I loved it. Like opening a gift each day! What a way to start each morning. 

Porto was a great little city to walk in—lots of shops, cafes, and coffee, as well as tuk-tuks and trams. We took a river boat ride and even a gondola. For me, Porto fits my personality. With the fantastic Livraria Lello bookstore, the chandeliers in McDonald's, the Time Out Market, and everything else, we kept very busy. 

I've had many friends ask me if I'd go again. I would like to see some of the coastal towns. Who knows, maybe one day!

Portugal is a lovely, casual country. They have slippery tile, so wear sneakers! Both Lisbon and Porto have Time-out markets or food halls. Such excellent food! Both have trams, tuk-tuks, great food, and coffee. Also, I have to tell you — look for cork products. Portugal is the world's largest producer of cork. Just make sure that what you buy is made in Portugal. And don't forget actually to touch a cork tree! 

Make sure to be a tourist. After all, you are one! Own it. Ask the questions, do the things, eat the food. It's safe, and the people are super friendly. They love to talk and share their culture and worldviews. We had a wonderful time there and I'm so glad that I took as many pictures as I did. I love reliving those wonderful memories. 

My Near-Death Experience

My cousin sent me a video made by John Burke on near-death experiences. I was on vacation when I received it and forgot about it until my daughter asked me if I had seen it. I said no, and I watched it as soon as I could. It’s funny that as someone who has had a near-death experience herself, I was and still am a skeptic. Oh, how human am I?

I found it riveting and didn’t want it to stop. I wanted to hear more, much more. I could relate in a lot of ways. My experience wasn’t as dramatic as some, but it was extremely real, just the same. 

Here is my story—I was in my 40s and became severely sick. I thought I had the flu—vomiting, diarrhea, and all the regular symptoms that come with it. After five days, I became so sick that I had to crawl to the bathroom; I was too weak to walk. My husband finally insisted that he take me to the emergency room. I guess my three children were in school that day. I hate to admit that I do not remember much. I was that sick.

As we pulled into the parking lot of the hospital, he ran to get a wheelchair, as I was too sick to walk in on my own. While sitting in the waiting room, I became so ill that I slid out of the chair onto the floor and remember feeling so much better, just lying on that cold tile floor. Of course, the staff wasn’t having it. They kept telling me I had to sit in the chair, which I couldn’t. They determined that I was, in fact, very sick, so they got a gurney and took me into a treatment room. The nurse tried to get my blood pressure, she had me sit up, and then she began yelling and pushed the code button, all the while shouting orders. I lay there on that gurney feeling so glad that I finally had someone to take care of me. I guess my blood pressure had dropped to 60/30. 

I was rushed into another room, hooked up to several monitors and IV’s. 

Here’s how I remember things happening. As I was lying in the room, approximately 10 people crowded around me; some were nurses, and some were doctors. All were talking fast and moving fast. In my mind, I was not afraid at all. I wasn’t praying and asking God to take care of my family (which I thought was interesting), I was thanking him for my family, and for everything he had done in my life. I felt so much peace. I rested in his arms and felt great love and comfort. Had I died in that moment, I would not have cared at all. I wouldn’t have been sad because I knew God had complete control. 

And then it happened, I was up above everyone in the room, looking down at my body while they were all working on me. I was separated from myself. I was in a completely different dimension. I could hear everything they said, and I knew all their names. I could even hear the fear in their voices. 

The next thing I remember is waking up in a room with two nurses tending to me. I smiled and said their names. I then told them what had happened and mentioned the names of the others in the room. They called in a couple of the doctors and nurses so I could tell them. I listed the names of those attending me. One doctor was visibly shaken and left the room, returning a while later. The nurse told me I had upset her because I had listed everyone's name. I didn’t mispronounce anyone's name, nor leave anyone out. They were all very amazed and said that they had had a few other patients who had also had near-death experiences. 

That was the first time I had heard that term. Near-death. I asked my doctor—Was I near death? She said, Oh yes, had you waited even another hour to come to the ER, you would not be alive right now. We almost lost you. 

My diagnosis? E Coli. A bacterial infection. Usually not fatal. Mine had turned quite serious, though. I was severely dehydrated, and my kidneys were failing. I am very thankful that my husband was insistent that I go to the ER, and I am also grateful for my near-death experience. I have never, even to this day, experienced such peace and comfort from God. I don’t understand his reason for having me go through that, unless it was to lessen the pain and heartache that I am feeling over the profound loss of my grandson Jack. Grief has its own category. It’s a pain like no other. 

From several spiritual experiences in my life, I know that Jack is with God in heaven. I want to desperately cling to that fact. It’s not a hope for me but a fact. I know that I know he is with God. 

It’s just like God—the way he does things—that my cousin would send me a video, and I would vividly remember my own near-death experience. That’s how he works in my life—quietly and in small doses so that I can absorb and handle each life hurdle. God moments. That’s what I call them. 

Just as the Bible teaches, we see through a glass darkly. I can’t see the future, but he can and does. That’s where my trust has to kick in. It’s not that I won’t feel times of great sadness and loss, but I will also feel times of great joy. I walk with God. I always will, sometimes with my eyes and ears wide open and sometimes with them closed, and asking him to help me and lead, because I can not do this life alone without him. I wouldn’t want to, I would give up. However, with God, wow, what an amazing life! Here on earth and also in heaven. I just need to remember that!

Survival

I am surviving. I have been navigating through grief, learning much, and now have learned to move through grief daily. I think that learning is the hardest for me. Daily, I must choose whom to listen to, myself or God. Do I trust God and rely on him or not? Each morning, I ask myself these questions. Is today a trust day, or is today a grief day? Maybe they are both on the same day. I believe that's true more often than not. 

I have been doing better. I feel my emotions rise, and I can now self-talk them down—most of the time, anyway. I am trying new tools daily. I guess I am surviving as a navigator. I like the sound of that. It isn't as if I have conquered anything. That's for sure. And I wouldn't want to. I want to feel my emotions as they come, take them out, look at them, and then decide. Is now a good time to deal with them, or is now a good time to put them away for a bit? I have the privilege to do that. It is my right to grieve. And I will. 

As I moved through the 5 stages of grief, I have made myself embrace them fully. I accepted them all with open arms. I wanted to feel the pain, the anger, the denial. However, the depression and acceptance were the hardest for me.  I had to accept Jack's death, which I hated to do, and I had to work my way past the depression. It is still painful. The reality of the accident that took his life, the fact that my daughter's life will never be the same, and the reality that I will always be sad. As an optimist and a Christian--that is a hard pill to swallow. 

Also, I sometimes find it hard to reconcile my beliefs with my emotions. Knowledge and feelings collide inside of me. I feel unloved and yet loved by God at the same time. I have so many questions, and he has answered them to some extent. Jack is with God. Selfishly, though, I want him with his family. That's where my trust falters. The Bible tells me to trust God. I did. Jack is now gone. The equation isn't to my liking. Things just don't add up in my brain. Is it going to happen again? Do I now have to live in fear of losing another grandchild or one of my children? This is now my greatest fear. And--I live with it every single day. It is gut-wrenching. 

My daily regime is to pray constantly (I did that before, too) and go through the motions of everyday life: wake up, get ready, go places, and act normal. Wait until late at night and fall apart. Maybe that's the time I fall into God's arms. I ask him to help me get through this time of deep grieving. And, since I am surviving, he may be answering my prayers after all. 

I hope my blogging, concerning my walk through grief, helps someone else out there deal with their own grief. To pray, to let God heal, and to learn to trust again--that's what I am hoping for.  I don't know if I will ever be the same again. I don't know if I want to be. As I grow, I want to grow towards God, not away from him. I trying. I'm surviving. 

He's With Me

I intended to write a blog with a different name—one entitled “Not Yet.” It was all written in my head, every last word. I was looking for some free time but was too busy to sit down and pour my heart out on these pages. As the days went by, something took place. So, “Not Yet” is being put on the back burner for now, and I will share it with you some other time. However, something quite unbelievable happened to me, which is what I will write about.

Seven months have gone by now without my grandson Jack. I miss him every moment of every day. I think of him first thing when I wake up. I then have a horrible thought. Why did I have to wake up, why couldn’t I have just drifted off in death—that is how sad I have been. As I’ve said before, I didn’t just lose a grandson, I have lost my daughter. The one that was always cheerful, laughing, and full of life. Now, she is full of sadness, and it breaks my heart. So, as a mom and grandmother, I am suffering two deaths. And honestly wouldn’t have minded my own. It’s been that hard.

Yesterday was a tough morning for me. I woke up depressed, missing Jack, thinking about having to fake my way through another week of being out and about with friends. I’ve been going to lunches, dinners, book club, playing canasta, etc. I just recently started going back to church and our weekly Bible study. My heart wasn’t there, but my body was. I was going through the motions to make others happy. They don’t worry about you if you fake it until you make it. Right? As far as my friends knew—I was getting better. But, no—I wasn’t. In my heart it feels as though Jack died yesterday. That’s how fresh this pain is. If I shared that with friends though, they’d most likely think—she needs to get over it. She needs to move on. News break—I’ll never get over it. Ever. Well, until yesterday, when everything changed.

Whether you chose to believe me or not, I am going to share what happened to me. It sounds unbelievable. And, I can see how it would sound that way to someone who doesn't believe in God. But, it happened—to me—and it was so very real. I was sitting on the edge of my bed, crying my heart out, blowing my nose, trying to get myself together to leave the bedroom and meet the day with a smile. I have gotten good at that. Smile, act happy, look ok, put make up on, and go! I needed just a few more minutes—I wasn’t praying (I haven’t been doing much of that, I’ve been so angry with God), I was sitting and crying. And then I heard it. I heard God speak to me. Not loudly, and not too softly. Just in a matter of fact voice that penetrated my significantly hardened heart. Not an audible voice. He spoke to my head and heart simultaneously. I heard it as if it were audible though. It was that clear and that real. He said—He’s with me. And then, as though I could see a picture in my mind, I saw God with his arm around Jack's shoulder. They were facing away from me, looking out. Jack was not sad at all, he was very content to stand with his God and enjoy his new life. I knew then that he had no idea of us here on earth, not our grief or sadness, he was only aware of God. And he was happy and content. 

As I sat there in complete amazement, it dawned on me that I was no longer crying and filled with the most euphoric feeling I have ever had. I was happy for the first time in seven months. I know how this sounds. If you were sharing it with me, I’m not sure I’d believe you. 

It’s funny to me that the first thing I wanted to do was run to my computer and blog about it. I did not allow myself that indulgence though. I made myself wait for 24 hours. I wanted to see how long this happiness would last. Just how long would I continue to believe that God had shown me something that miraculous? Would I wake up this morning feeling stupid? Will I be sad again today?  Would I feel differently? So, I made myself wait. 

I am writing and sharing now and telling you how real that experience was, whether you believe me or not. My Jack is happy, and he’s with God. For that reason, I can now be glad, too. 

I don’t pretend to understand the way God works or why certain people live long lives, and some short lives. I don’t have answers. And while I wanted answers before, I don’t need them now. Jack is happy. 

I prayed this morning—I mean, really prayed. I thanked God for everything, and I felt happiness and gratitude. The anger was gone, and believe me, I was in shock. I have not felt that way in months, only sadness and anger. 

It’s gone now, though—especially the anger. I am aware that I might experience some sadness at times, and I am preparing myself for those times. I wonder how sad I can be when he’s with God.

I am looking forward to seeing Jack when God’s timing is right for me to go. Until then, I will serve God, pray, and be joyful again. I will let the excitement build in my heart for that time. Thank you, God, for Jack being with you and for being so happy. Thank you for showing me that and, in turn, making me happy. Thank you for loving me so much and healing my broken heart. And thank you for telling me—he’s with me.

Christmas 2024

This Christmas has been my worst Christmas. It isn’t that I didn’t enjoy my family—I did. I loved being with my children and grandchildren, cooking and baking, shopping for them, wrapping gifts, and everything else. Everything was pretty much picture-perfect. Everyone was there except for one: My grandson Jack was missing this year, which made all the difference. 

It’s interesting to me how the loss of one individual can impact a holiday. The void, however, is what does it—the absence of a loved one. He should have been there. He should have received gifts; he should have eaten the prime rib, the cookies, the fudge, and the leftovers, he should have. And yet, he wasn’t there. And that made all the difference. That is why this Christmas was my worst Christmas. 

My daughter, son-in-law, and granddaughter came on a Sunday evening and spent the week with us. Christmas fell on a Wednesday. Everything leading up to that day was torturous for me. Even Christmas Eve with the family all over felt hollow. We smiled, laughed, ate good food, and told stories. Then, when everyone went home, I cried big sobbing tears. I cried hard. I wanted Jack to be there. It felt odd. Everything felt surreal.

Christmas morning, I woke up crying. As hard as it was, I was determined to be brave for my daughter and granddaughter. I was not going to ruin their day. We watched Sophia open gifts from her parents, had coffee and breakfast, and waited for the rest of the gang to arrive. 

I made a prime rib for our afternoon dinner, and we opened gifts while it roasted in the oven. Gifts for us, gifts for them. We did have fun. Our little grandkids can make life pretty great. Afterward, I had one special gift for each grandchild before cleaning up and joining the dining room for dinner. I make a Christmas picture ornament with each grandchild with their cousin Jack. I told them that Jack would always be with us, that we would never forget him and always love him, and that he wouldn’t want us to be sad. Of course, everyone was crying, but I felt they were good tears, healing tears, and tears that acknowledged Jack. I guess I didn’t make going into the dining room very easy. However, we dried our tears and had our meal. However, that seat at the table was where Jack would have sat. Wow, that was hard to deal with; we did it. We dealt with it and made it through. 

After dinner, we went to our son’s house, played games, ate good food, and tried hard to have fun. I will be honest here, though: I had a tough time. I missed Jack so much. I just wanted him to be there. And, frankly, I was glad when the whole day was over. It was our first Christmas without him, which was horrible. 

We still had three more days with our daughter and her family, and I was determined to make them fun. We shopped often, stayed very busy, and tried hard to enjoy those last few days together. 

This will likely be the worst year for us all. We are facing monsters—all the firsts without Jack. However, we are surviving. And I believe we are doing precisely what Jack would want us to do—moving forward with a new normal, living our lives, remembering him, and trying. We are trying. It isn’t easy. So many tears. So much sadness. But we are trying. 

Our worst Christmas is over. We will move forward into a new year with happy memories, many photos, and much love for each other.

Navigating Grief--Part 4

No matter how hard I try to run from it, it follows me everywhere. I'm not doing a great job of navigating grief. I wake up sad most mornings. And, then, I remember. My grandson is gone. It hits like a tidal wave. I try hard to reign in my emotions, take a few deep breaths, talk myself out of crying, and get up and start my day. I do pretty well for the first hour or so. However, as reality sets in, with the help of coffee, my memory wakes up, and the tears begin to flow.

I am a planner by nature, and now planning has become the focus of my life. I plan my days away to be busy; I must keep my brain occupied. I now make plans for almost every minute of every day. It can be simple things—TV, coffee, reading, meeting up with friends—just anything to fill in the blank void of my mind and, yes, even my heart. Being busy is what I need right now to navigate my walk through grief.

Grief is strange. It's always there, a never-ending sadness that never goes away. It sneaks up on me, waits behind corners, jumps out to scare me, wakes me up at night, and invades my thoughts. When I think I feel a tad stronger, it punches me in the gut again—a never-ending blow. I am convinced this is my new normal: stay busy, prepare for the gut punch, accept sadness, get through each day, and repeat. 

What is normal anyway? A regular life? A typical life? Is that what my daughter living in now? Just what is normal? I've only lost a grandson; she's lost a son. I think sometimes what it would be like if it had been one of my own children who had died and not a grandchild. I honestly can't imagine the pain worsening, but would it be? Could it be? How much pain is a person supposed to endure? What is considered the normal amount of pain for loss? My heart is breaking, and my pain is not dissipating. It's now been five months. Will it be like this in five years? Will I be able to go on like this? Sometimes, I don't think so. 

And now, Christmas is here. I am looking at our Christmas tree, all decorated with lights and ornaments. Our entire house looks like Christmas. We have lights, villages, and lots of European Christmas market decor; it's festive. I thought it would help. It doesn't, but not decorating our home would have made it worse. Here I sit, riding another emotional roller coaster. I'm waiting. Waiting to see if somehow, someway, my spirits are lifted. 

I am praying again. I'm not as mad at God as I was a month ago. He and I are coming to an understanding. He is in control, and I just need to understand that. I need to accept it. Bah humbug. I don't want to. I do believe that as I navigate all this horribleness, I will grow in my faith. I have to believe that to survive this. My questions for God this week are--will I survive this? Am I navigating this correctly? Will I do all this grief stuff correctly? Will my daughter? Will we grow closer to God? Will we make it? Will God forgive me for being so mad at Him? So many questions for God. As if He doesn't already know my heart, right? 

I am trying. I really am. I am not isolating; I am sharing my feelings and staying in touch with friends and family. I don't hold back. I'm doing all the steps for healing, growing, using the tools, etc. 

I am navigating. Sort of. I am trying hard. 

Last Year

A lot can happen in a year. Your life can change instantly, never to be the same again. That's what happened to me and my family. Last year, we celebrated Thanksgiving with all 16 family members, including 8 grandchildren. This year, one person is missing: our grandson Jack. Last year, I was looking forward to the holidays. This year, I am not. 

Everything changed so quickly. I still haven't been able to catch my breath. This year, my grandson Jack will not be here with us. Just the thought of it is horrific. You see, no one told me he wouldn't be here. I didn't even get time to prepare myself. Last year, I didn't get to say--well, this is our last holiday season together, so let's make the most of it. I just took it for granted that he'd be here--celebrating. Instead, he is in heaven. I am very thankful and grateful for that. I know he is happy with God, and I look forward to the day we will see each other again. However, we (as a family) are having a challenging time with his death. We want him back. We miss him. It's hard. 

We will still have our dinners, watch movies, go shopping, and eat out—all the usual holiday activities. But without Jack, these activities aren't normal. They are now abnormal—as in, not fun. We miss him. 

Now, when I set the table, there is one vacant seat—one person is missing. When I go shopping and see things he'd love, I can't buy them. And restaurants? We don't want to go without him when looking for that favorite restaurant. I mean--we are all about food. Just how are we supposed to navigate that? It's so hard. How do we enjoy life again without him?

I have gone through the motions of living out this holiday season. I have decorated my home. I have made the family favorites for dinner. I have baked the pies and roasted the turkey. However, my heart is with Jack. I want to just sit and talk with him, and he's not here. And because of that, I have concluded that, at some point, I need to make some changes in my life. I need to spend more time with each grandchild--talking, laughing, and sharing. They need to feel special (and they are). They need to know how much I love them. I do all these things for them, too, and not just Jack. They are all so unique and loved and cherished. 

So no, things will not ever be the same again. It will not be like all the years past. Things are different now. There are future years yet to be determined. And I promise to make each one special so that this time next year, I might feel just a little bit of joy and maybe even more joy each year after that. So, no, it's different from last year. It's this year. A new year. I know that is what Jack would want. He'd like all of us to finish enjoying our lives here on earth for as long as God wants us here. So, I will. I'll do it for him. 

Happy Birthday, Jack

Dear Jack,

I didn't think I'd write to you again. I thought my last letter to you saying goodbye would be enough. After that, I had planned on writing about you. However, I just want to, I need to, talk to you once again. I haven't heard your voice for over 3 months, and I wanted to call and tell you happy 23rd birthday--like I do every year. Not this year, though; it would freak your mom out if I left a voicemail. I wouldn't want to do that to her. Can you imagine? Your mom sent me the voicemails saved on your phone of all the calls I had left for you, wishing you a happy birthday each year. I didn't realize you saved them. You are so sweet. I wish, though, that they were your voice I was listening to and not mine. I long to hear your voice once more. 

So, this need to write to you was overwhelming. I have so much to share with you, and I miss you so much. Things are changing around here, and I want you to know what's been happening and what you are missing out on. For instance, we finally finished the shower in our room! You would love it; it's genuinely spa-like. You'd be lined up to use it if you were here. Arguing with Soph! I can just hear you guys. Also, we completely remodeled the basement--it's very boho hippie. We did it primarily for your sister. We knew it would bother her to go down there now without you. We brightened it up; hopefully, she'll use it in time. Don't worry; we're not putting any pressure on her. It's cute, although it might be too girly for your taste. Oh, and Caitlin got her learner's permit and is now driving all of us around (when we'll let her), and Micah is now taller than his mom. Also, he is giving up the piano and taking up the guitar. I would like to know if you influenced him over that decision. My friend just gave him a beautiful one in a nice case to start out on this new endeavor. It will be interesting to see how that'll play out. I'll let you know. I hope you are okay with me writing to you periodically. It's therapeutic for me. I just have that deep need to converse with you. I miss you terribly. I wish I could give you a big bear hug! 

The leaves are turning, and the fall colors are just beautiful. Halloween is around the corner, which was one of your favorites. Your mom still decorated the house. She knows you'd love that. Oh, and you should see Pheobe! She's enormous but so very sweet. You picked out a good puppy, Jack; everyone loves her.

Grandpa had his knee replacement surgery. He was very nervous. I know you would be in school and working, the same as your sister, but I bet I would have tried to talk one of you into flying up and helping me with him. Instead, I have enlisted your uncle Curtis's help. Hopefully, he'll be as kind and patient as you. Hey, maybe I'll give Grandpa some space cake!

Jack, I know in my heart that you are rejoicing in heaven and are at peace with all God has for you. As Christians, we know that our lives don't end with death. We live forever with Him! So, I will be overjoyed when it's time to join you. I sometimes envision you sitting there with Jesus, smiling, playing your guitar, and singing. Just sitting quietly and worshiping him. I don't know. I just sense a real peace about heaven. And now, I look forward to seeing you again. 

So, while you are not spending your 23rd birthday here on Earth with us, please know that we celebrate you daily. We think about you, cry over missing you, look at photos, and reminisce about the places we've been. We constantly talk about you and share funny stories. You are still a massive part of our lives and always will be. Our memories of you will have to sustain us until we meet you in heaven one day. And know this--our grief is as deep as our love for you. 

If it's okay with you, Jack, I will write you a happy birthday letter each year and catch you up on the comings and goings of our family. There are many of us, so hopefully, if God allows you to see this, you'll be happy to learn of us--all our silly shenanigans. 

Oh, by the way, your friends are amazing. They visit your folks regularly, watch sports with them, and eat your dad's good food. They all chipped in and are putting a memorial bench near where you used to go hiking. I can't wait to see it this spring. I plan on sitting there, thinking of you, and having a good cry. I miss you so much.

Don't worry about your family, Jack. We are all taking excellent care of them. We don't let too much time go by without a visit. Grandpa is helping with whatever needs they have. I am taking your sister shopping as much as possible. All of your aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents are very involved with them continually, just like I told you we'd be. They are doing okay, Jack. They will never be the same, but they will be okay. We will always be here for them and remind them to keep going for you! 

Happy 23rd birthday in heaven, Jack. I miss you so much, and I love you. I would give anything to have you back here with me, but since that isn't possible, I will live a grand life for you and try to make you proud of me as your silly old grandma. Oh, I wish I could just say this to you now. You knew how I felt, which brings me so much joy. 

Love, Grandma

Navigating Grief--Part 3

There are five stages of grief; I believe that I have gone through a couple so far. The denial part, for sure. I kept saying this can’t be happening. This can’t be true. I’ll wake up from this nightmare, and everything will be as it once was. He’s not really gone. 

And then, the anger hit. That stage hit very hard. I was angry with God and felt anger toward others for no reason. I was just mad—mad at the world, mad at drivers, slow people, stupid people. I think that part is settling down now. I can tolerate others a little better. I was never mad at Jack, my grandson, Never!  Or at the friend he was with that morning. If anything, I am thankful that he wasn’t hurt. I feel no anger at myself or anyone, really, mainly just at God. When I prayed and asked him to protect my family—I stupidly thought he’d do that. It will take a while for me to reconcile that part with God. 

The bargaining stage has me needing clarification. Who are you bargaining with? And what are you bargaining?  Since I wasn’t involved in Jack’s accident, I guess the guilt part doesn’t affect me. However, maybe God would have spared him if I had been a better Christian. Perhaps that’s part of bargaining. I’ll have to think about this one.

Depression. That’s right where I am right now. I am so sad—all the time. Every few minutes, Jack’s death hits me full force, and it knocks the wind out of me. I wake up at night crying. I walk through the house and see where he has sat. I can’t seem to go more than a few minutes without thinking of him and missing him. Sadness overwhelms me to the point where I am almost afraid to go out with friends for fear of breaking down. Do they think I’ve grieved enough? After all, it’s been 2 1/2 months. Do they think I should snap out of it? At least that’s where my mind takes me, whether they think these thoughts or not, I wonder. So, I play a little game with myself. Get through this time with friends (or family), go there, do that, smile, and then when you get home, you can let it rip. And I do. I cry my heart out. Usually, all the way home. My motto now is—to fake it until you make it. I am managing my depression. I realize what is going on. I am taking all the essential steps. I don’t isolate. I get together with friends. I go out. I make plans for the future. There are times when I do feel happiness. And I do see a future. It’s just learning to manage the sadness. That part is so hard. 

The next stage I look forward to is acceptance. Life should get easier. I sure hope so because this part is so heavy—almost too heavy to navigate. I do see a slight improvement. I work hard, but I have crucial elements missing. It’s hard to explain, but I’ll do my best. I have been a Christian since I was six years old. I’ve always had a very close relationship with God. I feel that that relationship is now broken. I am dealing with trust issues. I haven’t been to church since Jack’s death. Nor do I have a desire to go. I keep putting it off. Next week. Next time. Anger is holding me back. In time, I know that I will turn a corner when I do go, but for now, I’m ok with where I am. Spiritually, I feel dead, although I know that isn’t true. Until that leaves me, though, I’ll keep that distance between God and me. I have not prayed, I have not sung, I have not felt close to God. And, for me, that is heartbreaking. I’ve never felt this abandoned before. It’s a terrifying place to be. 

I keep thinking that if others pray for me, God may hear them. He’s not listening to me right now, but maybe it’s because I’m still not talking to him. 

Navigating Grief--Part 2

Grief is hard. It's always walking around in a fog. Forgetting everything--why did I come into this room? Why am I on this street? What am I doing? Brain fog, it turns out, is real. 

Also, I found out that I am not grieving for just one person. I am not grieving for just my grandson. I grieve for my daughter, too. For every tear I shed, there are more for her. How can I not? She is my daughter, and her life has changed forever. She will never be the same. So, I cry. A lot. I miss my grandson, and I miss her. 

I wake up every morning, and the minute reality hits me, I instantly become sad. That's how I start my days now. Sadness overwhelms me. I hate the new reality of my life and that of my family. We are missing one. We are now broken. 

I have yet to return to church. I am still angry with God. I went from a person who prayed a lot to a person who does not want to pray at all. I do not want to talk to God. He has let me down. He did not protect my family, and honestly, that's all I really ever wanted from him: protection. Actually, thinking this over--I do pray a little. I tell him I am still mad at him and don't want to talk to him. I guess that's a start. 

I try to tell myself that I am making progress. I am walking out the steps of grief. I am not isolating. I am making plans, moving forward, and keeping busy. I need projects. I need to have things to focus on, even though I lose that focus often. Life feels empty, so I try to fill it with plans and more plans. 

Am I navigating grief? I don't know. I am trying hard. I am giving it my all. I am honest with my feelings. I am feeling the feelings. It's been almost two months now since Jack died. Everything reminds me of him—every single thing. I hear him saying, "Hey, grandma, whatcha got in the pantry? Hey, grandma, can I use your shower?" When I am out shopping, I see things that he liked. I see the foods, the clothing, shoes, you name it, it all points back to him. I guess that's normal, though. I hear that from a lot of people.

I worry about the upcoming months. His birthday is in October, and Thanksgiving and Christmas are coming up. How will we manage? It scares me. I want to hide my head under the covers, fall asleep, and wake up in January. 

For now, I will continue to do what I am doing. I will try to pray, I will try to go to church at some point, and I will meet with friends. I will be with my family, which brings me much comfort. And I will try to heal. But I will never be the same. My heart is in little broken pieces all over the ground. I am hoping someone will come along and sweep them up. I thought it would be God. 

Navigating Grief--Part One

It has been one month now since the death of my oldest grandson. I am not sure how one navigates grief. However, if there is a way, I will find it. I must. For me to maintain any type of life balance, I have to learn how to live with/through grief. So far, I hate it and am not doing well. I wake up crying and go to sleep crying. I cry on and off throughout the day. Any little thought or trigger can cause tears to stream down my face at any given moment. I have absolutely no control. I tell myself--you have control of this, do not start crying. I do not listen. I cry anyway. 

This is not my first encounter with grief. I've lost other loved ones. Cousins, aunts, and uncles. I've lost a niece and 2 nephews. I've also lost my own mother and father. So, I am no stranger to grief. Nothing, however, prepared me for this loss. Nothing. The loss of a grandchild? It feels like the loss of my own child. The grief is unbearable. It consumes me. It's all I think about, all I dwell on. 

My mind goes to sad, dark places. I think about all the things that my grandson is going to miss out on—holidays, marriage, children—everything. He will be forever 22 years old. If I could just put these thoughts in a box for a few short hours, I might stop crying. It's hard, though, when the leaves on the trees outside my window tell me that he will not see the fall changes. He will never again come through my door, hugging me and saying -hi, grandma. I obsess over these thoughts. I need them to stop.

I have tools—psychology tools—and I am using them. I am walking out the steps. The tools I used to help others, hopefully, will one day help me. Hopefully. Prayerfully. Prayer--I do pray. I pray hard. When I pray, though, I pray honestly. I am very mad. I do not sugarcoat anything when I talk to God. I gave my life to him when I was a child and expected him to protect my family. He did not, so he has heard about it from me. He has heard a lot. I am sincere in expressing my thoughts and feelings to God. He said he knows my thoughts before I think them--so why not let them fly. Why not be honest and tell him how I really feel. I am mad. I am so mad that I want to scream and yell and ask him why? Why did you let him die when everyone else walked away from the accident. Why? And then, I want to ask him how? How am I supposed to get through this while helping my daughter get through her grief at the same time? And what do I do with this anger? Tell me, God! What do I do now? 

This is the first part of me navigating through my grief. This is where I am. I am doing the steps. I am not isolating when all I really want to do is curl up in a ball on the sofa and cry. I am meeting with friends, even though it's hard-- I don't want to cry in front of them and make them sad. I go to shops and restaurants when I do not want to buy anything or eat anything. I do not have an appetite--for anything. I feel completely numb. I am reading the books, doing the things, feeling the feels, everything I should be doing. However, if I am not completely honest with you and lie about my feelings, then I can never help another person. I refuse to be fake.

This has been my first month. This is an honest, raw, painful story. But it's my story. And I won't sugarcoat it for anyone. I will share my walk through grief, how I feel, what I think about, and what my next steps will be. I will not lie. Right now, I am the saddest I have ever been. I am not suicidal. I am just brokenhearted. Will I heal? I don't know. Do I want to? Not really. I wish I could go to sleep and not wake up. Is that honest enough for you? This sadness overwhelms me. I am drowning in my tears. I hope and pray that next month is better/easier. 

This is my prayer: Take away my anger. Lead and guide me in all I say and do. Do not leave me. I am afraid. Heal my heart, please, don't leave me bitter. I want to survive this. Help me, please, God. Help me.

I Am Not OK

No matter how many times you ask me, no matter the months or years that pass by, please know this--I am not OK. I will never be OK ever again. My heart has been shattered into a million tiny pieces, never to heal. As long as I am left on this earth, I shall be a woman with a broken heart. Broken over the tragic death of my grandson and over the knowledge that my daughter is also suffering and brokenhearted. I now grieve for 2 people, her and her son. She is also broken. 

So, when you ask me, are you OK? And if I answer yes, I am not telling you the truth. I am not OK. 

I am surviving. I am trying to act like I am getting better or getting used to not seeing my grandson. As time passes, I will succeed in convincing you that I am OK, but I am not. I will not get over the death of my grandson. Honestly, it feels as if I have lost one of my children, not a grandchild. The pain that I feel deep in my heart aches. As I look at photos, some from just 2 months ago, I remember back over the last 22 years, and I sob with pain. I miss him so much. 

Fortunately, I had 22 years of pure joy with him. I am very thankful and grateful for those years. I tell God that every morning. When Jack was just a baby, he stayed with us for 9 months (with his mommy) while his dad was shipped out on a Naval aircraft carrier. I made him his own little nursery decorated with teddy bears and so many toys. When they left to go back home, I cried my eyes out. I missed them both so much but knew that their place was with their own little family. 

As a new grandmother, I committed to always being a presence in my grandchildren's lives. At most, two months could go by without a visit. Either my home or theirs, it didn't matter to me; I just wanted to hug them, hold them, and tell them I loved them. I wonder if Jack realized that. Did he know how much he was loved? I loved him so much and always will. He was my first grandbaby and will always have that special place in my heart. 

Every morning, I wake up and say good morning, Jack, I love you and miss you. And I wonder--with his birthday and the holidays looming, will I make it through? Will my daughter? Will we be content with our memories for the rest of our lives? I hope so. I am counting on God to walk us through this time. 

I am one of those grandmothers with family photos all over the house. The family room and hallways are covered with pictures. That's how I like it—family first. Now, though, as I sit and write this, I see his face everywhere—playing his guitar, hiking through a field, getting ready to go to Europe with us. Oh, thank God for that trip. Two weeks in Europe with our grandson—what beautiful memories. I had just wanted to make more--more time, more memories, more of everything. 

So now, I shall endeavor to make future memories with my other seven grandchildren. We will continue with our holiday fun, European trips, birthday parties, and much more. We will create memories, laugh, and cry together. We are a family. We will all remember to share our Jack stories. He will be a part of our lives, hearts, and memories forever. We will survive this and grow, and hopefully help others in their times of pain--however, I will never be OK. Part of my heart broke off, and now I am walking a different walk- a lopsided limp walk of a very mournful woman. I will pray and seek God. I will continue on with my life, and I will live on for my family. For we are survivors. 

So, when you ask me if I am OK, I am not and never will be.

Dear Jack

Dear Jack,

I have no idea how I will begin this letter, for it will be the last thing I ever write to you. My heart has been shattered into a million pieces, and I am trying hard to hold it together. You are now resting in the very arms of God. I know this, Jack. I know that I know that you are with Jesus. When you were just a little boy, you asked him to come and live in your heart. Little did you know that no matter what type of life you choose to live after that, God promised he would never leave or forsake you, and he never did. He was always with you. Always. I miss you so much, Jack. The pain of your absence is unbearable.

I remember you asking me questions about my faith. You were curious, and so was I. I have questions, too. Sometimes, I'd have to say, I don't know, and other times, I'd give you short answers for you to process on your own. And that's what we must do: work out our own salvation. So, even though my heart is aching, I am at peace because you are with Jesus, and I will see you again one day in heaven. So, don't worry about us down here. OK? God will take care of us.

Jack, when your mom called me to tell me that she was going to have a baby—my very first grandchild- I was so excited. Of course, you have heard all the stories about how you were supposed to be a girl. Surprise! Your grandma Gumm had to convince me that you were indeed a boy! And little Jack was born. I had the strangest sensation when I first held you in my arms. I told your mom that I felt like I had had another baby and given you to her. I guess it's a mother-daughter thing. I don't know. But wow, Jack, you have just had the best mom (and dad) ever. You know that, though. It was so evident in your close relationships with them. And, then, there was the sister…such a cutie. She worshiped the ground you walked on, although sometimes one wouldn't know that! I was so happy that you ended up being great friends. 

When Grandpa and I heard you all were moving to DC, I was so excited that we were only six hours away. We spent countless joyous times together—our big Penick family with aunts, uncles, and cousins—BBQs, pizza, and so much more—all centered around food. We truly loved those moments, didn't we?

Jack, I have cherished every moment of the 22 years God gave me with you. I have loved you fiercely. I would have moved mountains for you if you had asked. I adored your kind, gentle heart, bright smile, and even your long, beautiful hair. I loved everything about you. I loved watching your baseball games, watching Grandpa let you drive his convertible, and watching you hang out with your dad—two peas in a pod and such great friends. I loved our trip to Amsterdam and Paris, and even our shared space cake—don't tell anyone. Remember how we laughed until our stomachs hurt? Such beautiful memories that I will hold forever in my heart. I have all my crazy photos to look at and cry over. Thank you for being such a good sport about it. 

Jack, you were my first grandchild, and you'll always be my first grandbaby. I love you so much. Now, lean in here, Jack. I need to whisper something in your ear. I have a secret to tell you—you're my favorite. You are my special boy. Just don't tell the other cousins; they all think they're my favorite, too. And they are, all of you are.  

Jack, I will always carry you in my heart. I promise to be there for your mom, dad, and sister. So don't you worry. We will take care of each other. I love you, sweet boy. I am here to support and comfort our family, just as I know you would if you were here. 

Love, Grandma