Most, if not all, of us have something positive to say or to share about her: a favorite song, an endearing story, a quote she lived by. For me, it was her love of Jesus and the song she wrote that another iconic singer, Whitney Houston, made off-the-charts famous. 

It's funny how a nation and a world can mourn someone that most of us never met. How we can be brought together, no matter how different, and share songs, stories and tears. What an amazing gift grief can be.

A gift? Really?

As we grieve collectively for a legend, in the still of our hearts, many of us are grieving alone: for a mom, a daughter, an unborn baby, the loss of a marriage or a dream. Whatever the "it" is, we don't have the luxury of millions grieving alongside us. If blessed, we have a choice few. 

Even then, we bear our grief alone, in a very individual, sacred way. We alone had the relationship or the place or the thing. 

And now it's gone. It is love with nowhere to go. It is holy, this shattered thing we feel. It is ours and ours alone.

I was texting with a friend today who lost her beloved mom a few days ago. Separated by thousands of miles, her family grieves without her, leaving her to watch it all on a tiny screen. They are together, she is alone. It breaks her heart, it breaks mine.

Another friend is going through deep grief over multiple losses. She is way too young to have suffered so much. She feels others are able to articulate so well what they have gone through, are going through. But she can't. Not yet. Why are the words and the vulnerability not coming?

Why indeed?

Isn't this the ultimate grief question? Why? The unanswered questions, the what ifs?

For those that hope in the Lord the questions still arise, try as we might to stuff them down, down, down. If God works everything for good on my behalf, why is my daughter, my only child, dead? Why did both of my parents die within a year of each other? Why is Dolly, a beloved everything, gone at 80 years old?

If He loves me and desires my good, why did He allow this in my life, we ask, not really wanting to know the answer.

If God cannot fail, why do I feel as if He has failed me?

All valid questions. No easy answers.

As I have walked my journey of grief as well as walked alongside others during theirs, I have asked these questions more than once and I have felt great doubt. The soul-crushing, heartbreaking, body-aching doubt. And it's okay.

We may not hear this in our super-spiritual Christian circles. But that doesn't mean it's not true. What good does pretending do for anyone going through the dark night of the soul? We do ourselves a great disservice when we fail to be honest and authentic with each other.

I think the Creator and Redeemer of the universe is fine with our doubt. The Gospels are full of stories of 12 who walked side-by-side with Jesus yet were full of fear and doubt. And questions. Lots of them. They brought all of themselves to Him, all the brokenness and real-ness, and He made them whole. He can do the same with us.

What a beautiful thing!

Loss is a part of life. Indeed, it is all around us. In our world, in our hearts. 

All of us have lost something that has left us shattered. So, we grieve. In whatever way we can. There are no rules. There are no timetables. 

One of my favorite verses is "Those who sow with tears will reap with songs of joy" (Psalm 126:5 NIV). What a promise for all who have shed many tears. Joy will come. Maybe not today, or tomorrow or even next year, but eventually it will.

It may take time to find God again, or discover Him for the first time, in the midst of our pain. But He is always there, sitting with us in our sadness, waiting to be invited in.

​I thought I knew a lot about Douglas Alan Skelton, but it turns out I am wrong. His family and close friends, of course, had more up-front, close and personal experiences with him. But at Frontier Airlines, at least we were blessed to spend our entire work week with him. Indeed, it was not enough.

​Doug's three grown children eulogized him and did a fantastic job painting a picture, stroke by stroke, of just how great a father he was. As they spoke, I felt envious of what it was like growing up with a father like this, but ​also thinking I missed out, over the past 15 years or so, of not having more opportunities to see Doug in action on a personal level.

​His adult kids spoke about Doug telling them each day to go out "and love on somebody." My dad never told me anything like this.

​But it sounds just like my adoptive Daddy who said, "Love your neighbor as yourself." I've heard it said that, as believers, when we arrive in Heaven we will be asked two questions by God: 1) Did you love me? and 2) Did you love them?
​Doug did both, so very well.

At moments today, the grief was palpable, as it should be.

​But there were funny stories, too, about his ​love of disco music and one son "just wanting to go home" when Doug struck up long conversations with a grocery or gas station clerk. And his clear instruction to "get into a bit of trouble" to his kids when they were young. I would – and am – way too terrified to say something like this to my grown kids and granddaughters, but maybe fear didn’t lead in Doug’s life. And maybe he was on to something.

​On a more serious note, one of his best friends told a story about Doug's non-judgment of him when he confessed something very burdensome to Doug -- something he'd never told another soul. And Doug stayed (which sounds just like him).

​Though I had nothing on that grand a scale that I confessed to Doug (though I very well could have and perhaps he may have read between the lines), I confessed to him difficult things, epic ​Erin failures, running back to Customer Relations, tail between legs, feeling like a complete loser. But no one would ever know it by the way he treated me, and no one would ever hear it from his lips, not at work, anyway.

​It surprised me to hear today that Doug questioned if he had been the man he should have been, although it shouldn't have. He was humble and, like I said in my previous tribute to him, he would not want his life played back on the big screen for all to see.

​I have heard grief defined as "love with nowhere to go." Wow. This is so profound, honest and true. ​The love we all have for Doug is unique to only him. And he was, as I said on my way out of the funeral door today, "the real deal." Correction, he IS the real deal, for his life has really just begun.

​I was grateful to see many people from Frontier at Doug's Celebration of Life, all of whom I haven't seen in 10 to 15 years. ​Working at Frontier brought (mostly) good memories and (mostly) good people who I cared for and respected. Because of Doug, Customer Relations was a great place to work, even while doing the most difficult of all jobs. We rarely dealt with happy passengers, but once in a while we were empowered to move on behalf of desperate customers in desperate situations. I am forever grateful for that.

​While we are left with a void today, the love we had for Doug, the love with nowhere to go, will surely not be in vain. May it never be so!

​I, for one, want to adopt the Doug-ism of "go and love on somebody" as soon as possible. Not only that, but I also want to live out his example of actually doing it. I want the love that so worked in him, from God to others, to be the love that defines my life.

​May we all take a little extra time to ask questions and be present with complete strangers, to find out if our trash men like Gatorade and, if so, what their favorite flavor is, then stocking our fridges full of it for when they complete the thankless job of picking up our trash. 

​Doug left a legacy to all of us, even those who never knew him, for they can know him through those of us who did. It's up to us how that plays out and if we allow his love to truly have a home.

I hadn’t seen Doug in a very long time, but he was one of those people that leaves an indelible mark in a positive way. So many of the things I think about and how I view the World originated with Doug.

​What's uncanny is that just yesterday my husband, Ric, and I were talking about being a politician and having all our dirty laundry exposed. We wondered why anyone would ever choose that life. ​Without quoting my source, I said that none of us would want our life story to be on the big screen for the whole world to see. Especially me.

This is something that ​Doug said to me years ago. I don't remember what the context was, but it stuck, like so many other things he said. More than likely, I was sharing with him my enormous amount of regret about something in my life and he shared this nugget to mitigate my shame. I think I remember saying something like, “Yeah, right, Doug, your life is perfect, and nothing that you have done would cause you any shame.” Of course, he scoffed at that, and our conversation continued.

But his words comforted me to my core. I felt like if even he wouldn’t want his life re-played on a giant screen, perhaps there was hope for me.

​More than anything, it was not what Doug said, but his constant presence and steadiness as the Director of Customer Relations at Frontier Airlines. We all loved him. He was gentle, kind, used his words well and was very approachable.

​Shortly after I retired from the best employer I ever had, Doug retired as well and, a few months ago, I found pictures of the ​event on Facebook. I thought about him so much that day – I wish I had acted on that prompting because I believe it was from God. He was trying to tell me to reach out, knowing Doug’s time was short. I ignored the prompting.

​I worked for Frontier for over six years and both my happiest and most challenging work experiences were the three years I spent in Customer Relations. We had a great team, with many great bosses, and I loved them all. It was a fantastic job, but the most difficult, too. Dealing with angry passengers, day in and day out, took its toll.

​I left Customer Relations to go to the training department. Although I loved the training piece of the job, I was not accepted there. My introvert personality was not understood. Suffice it to say, my training department days became numbered, and I was given two weeks’ notice. At the time, I was a few months away from being able to retire with full flight benefits, something I had been eagerly anticipating and working toward.

I was desperate so I went to talk to Doug.

We went on a walk, and I filled him in regarding my not-so-ideal experience on the training team. He listened, then said, "When the train goes off the track, it’s nearly impossible for it to get back on it." It was obvious from what I told him that the training team track had most definitely derailed, with no hope of improving.

​He was so wise and so able to articulate a situation in just a few words, doing so in a way as to avoid heaping shame on a head that was already drowning in it.

He did all he could to help, hiring me back in the Customer Relations Department so I could do my time, then retire. It was one of the most humbling experiences of my life because I knew that everyone realized that I had not been a “success” while on the training team, even though my lack of training ability was not the reason why. But Doug allowed me to hold my head high as I possibly could, never saying a word about how I managed to burn my bridges in both departments.

It wasn’t a mercenary mission on his part. I remember him looking me in the eye and saying, "Quite frankly, we need you."

​He redeemed a bad situation, in more than one way. And even had a small party for me, a few months later, when I retired, tearily leaving to go work for Oracle. I was a jumbled-up mess that day, but Doug understood and never told me to stop crying. He got people.

​Doug endured a lot with me, but he never said, "I've never managed anyone like you." Instead, he simply managed me – and a variety of other personalities – as all great managers do.

​Frontier was in its glory days when Doug was at the helm and, as such, was one of the main sponsors of my beloved Colorado Rockies. From time to time, Customer Relations and the EarlyReturns Departments were able to occupy the suite boxes at the ballpark, and it was never enough for me. I always wanted more. I was relentless in my pursuit of free Opening Day tickets and throwing out the first pitch at a Rockies game, after my co-worker, Scott, was selected. I never stopped asking Doug when it would be my turn.

​When I say relentless, I mean relentless. I begged and pleaded and pleaded and begged. He encouraged me to never stop asking, that maybe one day it would happen.
​One day never did.

​Though Doug could be serious when times required it, he was ever the prankster and loved to pull my leg because it was so easy to get me riled up. I love baseball. He knew it. And he would use the Colorado Rockies as a ploy more times than not in his merciless teasing of me.

And he also used Jack, my favorite Frontier tail animal, telling me that Jack had been their family pet and had died while in their care. I fell for it, hook line and sinker, and was in tears when Doug fessed up. Never mind that Jack was a snowshoe hare and would not have been anyone’s pet! Logic went out the door when it came to my precious Jack.

Seeking to get even with him, on April Fool's Day I pranked him back. After conspiring with my co-workers, who waited just outside his office door, I went in and told him I had some bad news: I was leaving Frontier and going to work for Southwest Airlines, our nemesis. Fighting words. I still vividly remember the look on his face. He told me we needed to "talk about this," but I couldn't stand it one second more, bursting out in laughter, joined by three or four co-workers who were standing right outside his office door! He laughed, knowing I had gotten him just as good, if not better, than he had gotten me.

I could go on and on about Doug. About his love of Chick-fil-A and how he taught all of us that saying, “My pleasure” was much more significant than saying a mere “You're welcome.” I have been saying it ever since. Or him being concerned about a co-worker and me during a bad snowstorm and going out to the parking lot to clean off blowing, icy snow from our cars.

Tears are flowing off and on today because his loss is huge. He loved Jesus more than anything and this was evident in all he did. More than physical loss, my tears are a result of just how good he was and how I desire to be even a fraction of that for the people in my life. To show up, to listen, and to say as few words as possible while still honoring them above all else. He exemplified this, again, with grace, mercy and humor.

​Often when people die, we tend to sugar-coat how truly inspiring and amazing they were. We say how great they were when they really weren’t. ​There is no sugar-coating with Douglas Skelton. He was the real deal. No, really, he was.

Today I honor him with a hearty “My pleasure” and a trip to Chick-fil-A. Without a doubt, I will one day see him again. Until then, I will try to make him proud in the way I live my life, as I shepherd words the way he did.

For those who do not know, my brother, Scott, died 15 years ago. He was only 49 years old.  He was the middle child, two years older than me and three years younger than my oldest brother, Eric.

And he was larger than life.  At least in his growing up years.

I have written a great deal about him, our family and my mom and dad, especially since all three of them have now departed their Earthly home.  

I like to remember how Scott was in the early years, full of life and athletic prowess:  a phenomenal pitcher, a great dancer, a talented guitarist. He had a zest for life, but like all of us, he had his issues.  

My mom and dad spent a lifetime trying to get him healed. I'm unsure at how effective they were.  How effective is any parent when a child has his own will and is determined to exercise it?  I can only speak to my own ability to "control" my three adult children.  It isn't happening.  But even when they were younger, it was an uphill battle.

My parents fought that battle, one foot forward and two steps back, for decades. They would have fought it forever, had Scott lived.  I hated to watch it while he was alive but would give anything now to have a bird's eye view.  Why?  I think my parents would still be alive if Scott were.

That's because, before Scott died, they lived full, vibrant lives.  This is not to say those lives were drama-free.  Quite the contrary.  They fought about many things, namely my father's drinking and his inability to live up to my mom's standards.  But they were happy to the degree that any mismatched married couple could be.  And they made it work, somehow.

Dad was an avid race walker up to the time Scott died.  He was not happy if he didn't walk 8 to 10 miles a day.  And he didn't just walk:  he walked FAST.  He would never miss a walk, even when the weather was horrific.  On inclement days, he would walk inside, at the mall or the YMCA.  Sometimes mom would join him.

They continued to host many events at their home, including dinner parties, and had a large circle of friends.  Some they had met decades before when dad worked in Longmont, CO at the FAA center.  They made a point to get together with these couples on a monthly basis or so, even after dad retired, meeting somewhere halfway, like Northglenn.  Mom lived for anything social and would often give me a run down on each week, before it started.

"On Monday, we are going to dinner with Helen and Richard, we are going out dancing with Lola and Lee on Wednesday," she'd say.  Then she'd go through the rest of the week, telling me her vast plans.  She did more in one day than I usually did in a week.

They traveled, went out to eat often, spent time with their grandchildren, hosted dinner parties, lived life.  They were in their late seventies when Scott died; they still had so much life to live and were relatively healthy.

But the years before his death were not easy and the writing was on the wall, early on.  In fact, Scott always said he never expected to make it to fifty.  Prophetic words or self-fulfilling prophecy?  We will never know.  Mom and dad spent much time, energy and money trying to help Scott, paying for a condo for he and his third wife, sending him to bartending school (not the best choice for an addict) and allowing him to live with them.

At one point, Scott and mom actually moved in together, when mom had grown tired of her fights with my dad.  Crazy.  I had forgotten all about this until recently.  Funny how you remember things in pieces, when your psyche can process it.

I remember going to visit her at the apartment they shared, even after Scott had moved out.  I can't remember where he went or what happened to him.  Only that she was on her own for a while, then decided to go back to my father. The situation wasn't exactly picture-perfect right up to the minute he died.  There was much drama prior.

For a very long time I was angry with Scott and felt manipulated by him. It got to the point where there could no longer be a relationship, because it was one-sided. Whenever I got a phone call from him, I knew he wanted money or some other favor. Tough love eventually won the day, and social distancing became a thing before it became a thing.

I regret that.

When I found out Scott had died, I was devastated. Beyond words. I was in Philadelphia at the time and remember acting like a zombie for the rest of the day. I had to fly back to Colorado the following day, in deep grief, which is not a ton of fun on a packed flight when you cannot stop crying. The flight attendants were so kind and gracious. I will never forget how well they treated me and I learned empathy for others who had to travel under such circumstances.

Scott died in Nebraska and had been living with friends. I worked for Frontier Airlines, and they offered to ship his body back to Colorado for free. Again, I will never forget that act of mercy and I remember how much it meant to my mom.

My dad was in alcohol rehab when Scott died so we were unable to tell him about Scott's death until he was strong enough to bear it. As if that would ever be the case. It seemed like weeks but was more than likely just a few days. I won't forget his wailing anytime soon. No parent should ever have to mourn their own child. Most parents can think of nothing worse.

There was much blaming of each other in the days and weeks following Scott's death, on the part of my parents. There was no closure, no drawing closer. They say the death of a child either brings you closer together or further apart. My parents did the latter which was not surprising because they already stood on shaky ground. Years of trying to fix Scott had taken its toll. Their relationship had played second fiddle to trying to fix Scott. All relationships had. We were all in the same sinking ship. 

I had a lot of anger back then. Of course, it is one of the stages of grief, one of which I am intimately acquainted. I would like to say it was just the run-of-the mill anger everyone goes through, but it was more than that. It was also secondary anger due to the loss of my parents, the loss of my family, the dream of having the situation turn for the best. All of us wanted that, not just my parents. We all wanted the happily-ever-after, all's well that ends well celebration.

In the end, Eric and I simply could not be guests at that dinner party anymore. The food was spoiled and tainted, and we could no longer digest it. 

The ways in which we lose people are as varied as the things we lose. Car accidents, cancer, plane crashes, natural causes, COVID. The list is seemingly endless. I would venture a guess that almost none of you, however, have lost someone you care about because they were murdered.

I have, and can sum it up in one word: horrific.

I recently wrote about my brother, Scott, and his Disco dance group, The Silver Steps. Sid Wells, one of its four members, was murdered in Boulder, Colorado on August 1, 1983. He was 22 years old; I was almost 20. Like Sid, I was a journalism major, though we studied at different schools. I grew up with Sid. I loved him. He was like a brother to me; actually, he was much, much more. I loved him like THAT.

I don't remember how I heard he had been murdered, but I remember how it felt: like someone punched me in the gut. My mom and dad were out of town, even out of the country at the time, on one of their many vacations. It was just my two brothers and me alone at home. I remember phone calls; they seemed endless. Reporters calling, wanting to speak to Scott. I recall someone sitting in their car, for what seemed like an eternity, outside our house. I was grieving but felt prohibited to fully grieve. There were too many distractions; the hows, the whys, the whos.

If you Google Sid Wells right now, you will see story after story about him. Why? First, Boulder, Colorado wasn't exactly a crime mecca. I don't know how many homicides they have had, but not many, at least not up until that point. Second, Sid was dating Robert Redford's daughter, Shauna, at the time. Because of this, the case garnered widespread media attention.

Sid's roommate, Thayne Smika, was accused of the murder, but he fled and has never been found. Authorities believe he is somewhere outside of the United States. If you look at Smika's picture, you wonder, how in the world were these two friends? And what did they have in common? And why did he murder Sid, execution-style, in the condo they shared? There are a lot of rumors and speculation about that and I have my own opinion, but that is not the focus of this story.

This story is about the deep grief felt when one loses a loved one in a violent way like murder. Sid's brother, Sam, who was also like a brother to me, was the one that found his body. The Wells family had known tragedy before as Dick Wells, their father, was killed by a drunk driver in a car accident in 1981. We knew their entire family; they were OUR family.

I remember writing in my journal about the events; I felt overwhelmed and numb. I remember going to the funeral with my parents. Scott was an honorary pallbearer; he and Sid were not as close as they had been in high school. I remember the paparazzi who had no regard for the people there that were grief-stricken. I remember Robert Redford walking down the aisle to take his seat, just feet away from me. I remember so many things, yet much is a blur.

Besides writing in my journal, I have never written about Sid. I wish I still had my journals so I could dive in deeper regarding my emotions at the time. I know, even though many around me were grieving, I was alone in my grief. You see, my relationship with Sid was his and mine. No one else's. That being the case, no one knows what WE shared, how we felt. His death caused a depression I had never known up to that point or have known since then.

That is the way it always is with grief. It is a very personal, individual journey where only the person grieving can decide what is acceptable, what is okay. I know that it took me a very, very long time to get past the shock, terror, anger, and fear that I felt after Sid was killed. I was so young; only 20. I don't remember anyone telling me it was okay to feel what I felt or that everything, someday, would be okay; I don't remember even being free to speak about it.

Maybe that is why, at 62, I try to allow people to talk and grieve and just let it be what it is. It is through experience that we all, hopefully, learn. We oftentimes must go through something before we can meet people where they are.

I really wish this was not so.

But I digress.

Annie was diagnosed in 2024 with triple negative breast cancer and said cancer metastasized to her lung (a fancy way of saying it spread).  A month or so after finding this out, she died.  I do not like to say passed away because there is nothing glorious or sacred about death and since I was the only one with her when she died, I know it was not a "passing" but a death.  Three long breaths in, then out, and Annie was no more.

But yet she is.  She lives on, in the memories of so many, in the songs she sang to us, in the giving that she gave.

Ric and I agonized on when we should go to Arizona and be with her.  At first she said, don't come yet, then she changed her mind.  So he flew down early on a Friday morning in June and I followed later that night.  We are blessed with the gift of inexpensive flights due to my years in the airline industry (sometimes it's a curse, but mostly a great thing).  

When Ric arrived, he felt Annie looked great, all things considered.  Her best friend had said the same.  I had to see it for myself, my doubting Thomasina rearing her ugly head.  In this moment, I related to Thomas the disciple more than I wanted to admit...

When I arrived, I had to concur.  Yes, she was hospital bed-bound and had lost weight, but I had seen people dying of cancer before and she did not resemble those people.  She looked, well, like Annie.  And she acted like Annie.

Before we all shuffled off to bed, I asked her to sing "Dream a Little Dream of Me" which was her signature song.  If she were a baseball player, it may have been her walk-up music, although I think I asked this question once on Facebook and she gave a different answer.  I did learn, interestingly enough, during my time at her bedside over the next week, that she loved softball and she gifted me her mitt, along with a ball as well.  This blew my mind.  All this to say, the thought of Annie and walk-up music was not that far-fetched.

Anyway, that night, with oxygen flowing through her nose to her body, she sang the main chorus of the song:

"Sweet dreams 'til sunbeams find you. Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you.  And in your dreams, whatever they be.  Dream a little dream of me."

It was so meaningful and touching, and for once, I actually had the foresight to get it on video, knowing it may be the last time she sang to us.  It was.

Over the next several days, I had the opportunity to hang out with Annie and to take care of her, things I hadn't done much of during the 16 plus years I had known her.  She was always the one taking care of us, taking care of others, never letting us serve her.

At times, it was easy.  At times it was a battle.  Pushing and pulling, like trying to break a horse. She was 81 years old and had learned, I think, after a difficult upbringing, that she had to be this way:  strong, independent, fierce, stubborn.  I get it.  I resemble a lot of it.

I hope that, in my final days, I won't need help.  But I also pray that I will be humble and gracious and allow those who I took care of take care of me.  

Those last days with Annie were a gift.  They were not perfect or easy, but nothing worthwhile ever is.  As Garrett's Popcorn has on its napkins, "Love is Messy." No truer words ever were spoken.  

I had the chance to serve her, like she had served us.  I doted on her, much to her chagrin.  She didn't like it much and let me know, at times.  One such instance caused me to run to our bedroom crying, which she never knew.  When I returned, she apologized for snapping at me.  It was a sacred moment.  

I sat at the kitchen table for days, on my work laptop, trying to get things done.  But a steady barrage of friends and neighbors stopped by, wanting to say good-bye.  Dutifully, I would retreat to our bedroom downstairs to give them time alone because I knew that was fitting and appropriate and I had my fair share of alone time with her that week.

I had the opportunity to thank her for all she did for us, told her we had great memories.  And she said that she never did that much and that "all of it wasn't that pretty."  And I agreed, telling her none of that mattered anymore.  Love is messy, remember?  Our relationship wasn't perfect.  She loved her son fiercely and I am the love of his life.  One friend told me, something like, "Her son is her number one and you are married to him.  There will always be issues."  Said friend also told me that caretakers always take the brunt of the abuse.  Both of these statements were spot-on and very appreciated.

Were the last days hard?  Yes.  Were they truly a blessing?  Yes.  We had a lot of talks and laughs and I made her a lot of 7 and 7s, all that went nearly untouched.  There truly is a first time for everything.

I miss Annie.  October 15 would have been her 82nd birthday.  Of course, we remembered her on this day.  We toasted her, just like we toasted her on that Monday afternoon when she slipped into eternity.  Just her and me, alone in a room, where I heard her breathe her last, along with the droning of the oxygen machine, no longer needed.

This week I find myself thinking that it is fine and dandy for me to grieve because I am not a Spring chicken anymore and I am able to handle it.  At least that is what I tell myself.  But what about me having to watch my kids grieve?  Well, this is an entirely different story.

A week ago today my son, his wife, and many friends had to face the unimaginable:  the sudden death of a friend they had known for years.  One day he was here, the next he was gone.  Of course, this is true of everyone who dies.  We just don't expect a vibrant 33 year old in the prime of life to collapse...and never wake up.  It's heartbreaking for everyone involved.  Especially parents.  His parents, his wife's parents.  All parents.

We do not want to see our kids experience pain.  But we also know that, there but for the grace of God go I.  We begin to wonder about mortality in general and the mortality of our kids specifically. That could have been MY son, MY daughter.  Then we thank God that it wasn't and feel just a tinge of guilt.

Death is never fun because death is our enemy.  We were never, ever supposed to experience it so all death is unwelcome.  It feels so foreign to us.  It is not our friend.  People who say that death is just a part of life are wrong.   It is completely contrary to the way things were supposed to be.

Sudden, unexplained, youthful death is even that much harder to bear.  Watching your kids, even though they are actually adults, walk through it is nearly unbearable.  You wish you could take it all on yourself and bear the full burden of it.

That's not reality, I know.  I only wish it were.

If it were not, my kids' father would not have died.  Neither would their uncle or their grandparents.  Or anyone else who is close to them or who will ever be close to them.

It's just not fair.  

I'm not the only one who thinks this.  I was chatting with another mom who feels the exact same way about this situation.  It totally stinks.

I have a deep faith in God and I know He has a purpose for everything.  Even so, I am asking why a lot.  That's okay.  I think God wants us to ask questions and I know he can handle anything that comes His way.

So what can any of us do when unexpected grief hits?  We can support those who are heartbroken:  show up for them and love them.  We can contemplate our own mortality.  

More than anything, we can get right with God and right with others.  And we can live every day like it's our last because it very well could be.

I became an adult there.  I raised three kids there.  I lived there longer than any other place I'd ever lived. Thirty-three years.  Over half of my life.  That is a really long time to stay in one place.

My husband, Ric and I, talked about moving so many times.  Seven years ago we actually sold the house, but the deal fell through on the buyer's end so we stayed.  But the desire to move never went away.  But it wasn't feasible to move, really, because I was never home long enough to get it on the market and begin the daunting task of clearing out a lifetime of memories and other stuff.

As if the memories could ever be cleared out completely.

In August I finally started a fully remote training job after praying for it for years.  That is when we began to get serious, once again, about selling our home.  We put it on the market and it was under contract in four days, at a time when most houses in our area were taking much longer to sell, if they sold at all.

We cleared hurdle after hurdle, against remarkable odds, and we closed on both our old home and our new one within a day of each other.  The entire process from start to finish took about five weeks.  I am still in awe of how quickly we got everything finished. 

Only God.

Selling and buying a house are the most stressful things I have ever done in my life.  I never want to do it again.  It's so expensive and time consuming and it's the worst kind of rollercoaster ride.  And that doesn't include the emotional part.  I never knew I could wake up in the middle of the night thinking about so many different things.  Even that was a first for me, a habitual middle-of-the-night waking overthinker.

Some people may not even consider the emotional factor.  Maybe they move like I overthink:  habitually.  But we are talking about me here. Emotions always can and will come into play. I am learning that that is okay.  More than okay, really.  It is good and healthy and appropriate. 

I wanted to have one last dinner in our home with my kids, but it never materialized.  Truthfully, I wanted it to be a mourning party for all of us.  I would have loved it if everyone felt the same way about it as me.  The truth is, rarely does anyone feel the same way as me on any given topic. My therapist is helping me to see that this is okay, too.

When my ex-husband and I moved to 4375 Ireland Street those 33 years ago, it felt like we were moving into a palace.  It was so big and fairly new and had so much potential.  We had dreams, like everyone does, of what we wanted it to become, who we wanted to become, while living there.  Dreams of a perfect yard filled with roses and several healthy children.  An enduring marriage. An Akita named Nero.  Hosting friends and making memories.

Some of our dreams were realized while so many others weren't.  And all of this was rolled up into one not so perfect round ball of emotion as I said my final goodbye, more than once, a little over a week ago.

I began to grieve in early October while Ric was on a business trip.  This was right after we put the house on the market, thinking it might stay there for weeks or maybe not sell at all. I would make my coffee and go sit in the room that served as a nursery for all three kids, watching the rising sun.  Later this room would be exclusively my daughter's while her two brothers slept in bunkbeds next door.  

Time gives so much perspective.

On those October mornings I thought of the countless hours I spent in that room, still painted pink, rocking three babies on so many sleepless nights.  I thought about how I couldn't wait for those early weeks to pass.  Now I wished just as hard that the weeks would slow down, come to a standstill.  I told God, "If I could hold each of them as babies just one more time."  I closed my eyes, willing it to happen, trying to remember the smell of them and how they felt in my arms.

I looked at the window and imagined the rocking chair where I would hold each baby, singing Jesus Loves Me and Rock A Bye Baby nearly every night.  Allie would get the bonus Alley Cat instrumental sang to her most nights (for obvious reasons). I remembered the crib against the wall that I reached down into hundreds of times to pick up crying babies in the middle of the night and smiling ones in the morning.  So many days and nights were spent in that room.  So many memories that I found myself fighting to hold onto.

For some reason, that was the room I lamented in the most in the past weeks.  Would've, could've, should've.  Sometimes it gets so old, the reruns that play over and over in my head.  The overthinking is over exhausting.  

During the last few days spent in our home most of the rooms were empty.  I visited each one as well as the backyard.  Thirty-three years holds so many memories.  Some great ones.  Some painful ones.  But all of which made me into the person I am today, for good or for worse.  Everywhere I looked, they came flooding back.

I thought about so many things, as I walked from one room to the next, taking pictures in case someday I forget what it looked like. I had a few meltdowns, the last one in Ric's arms on Sunday afternoon.  I grieved the loss like a trooper.  I held nothing back.  I gotta be me.

Many well-meaning people told me along this journey, when I would say I was sad, that I had much to look forward to.  A new home, a new chapter, new memories.  That, of course, is true.  But in order to move forward, one must look back.  At least this one.

It really is okay, I would think and sometimes say to said people, that I feel this way.  It really is okay to feel it all.  No, really, it is.  Embracing it all is fine.

And that's what I did.  That's what I will continue to do.  When I think about the house that built me.

There are many stages of grief.  Most of us are well aware of them, if we have been alive for a certain amount of time or if we have ever taken a Psychology 101 class.  Most of us, too, have probably lost someone meaningful along the way, if we have lived a certain number of years, and have naturally experienced the stages.

Many view grief in terms of someone dying which is probably the most common kind.  But there are so many others, some of which you may not have thought of.  All of them have one thing in common:  something has died and we will never get that something back.

Almost all of us have experienced loss of a romantic relationship.  I certainly have.  This is one of the main reasons I enjoy Taylor Swift's music so much:  I can relate to the heartbreak.  And there is none that stings in quite the same way as having loved and lost. Imagining life without that perfect person is unbearable and we feel we cannot get past it.  Until the next perfect person comes along, if we are blessed enough to find love again.

I have also lost many close family members and friends to death over the years, some in tragic ways, and it is just as agonizing, but in a different way.  The loss of someone, whether physically or emotionally, takes a toll.  Quite simply, the person is not in your life anymore, but a huge hole is.

The longer I live, the more types of grief I have heard about, if not experienced first-hand.

Just the other day I was texting with a friend when she shared about the profound loss she feels regarding her children.  All she ever wanted, she said, was to be a mother; it was her sense of purpose.  When her kids grew up and left, she lost her purpose.  Now she is grieving deeply.  If her purpose is gone, now what?  Her sense of purpose is lost, along with her children.  That's a double loss.  

Another friend's son had battled illness for years, then was healed, only to get cancer, and get healed again, only for the cancer to return.  Her faith was so strong, she just knew he would be healed, only to see him healed in Heaven instead of on Earth.  Her loss is made that much harder because her son and yours were once friends and are the same age.  Your son is still alive, but hers is gone.  She doesn't verbalize this, but it is there, below the surface, ready to bubble up at a moment's notice.  There's no words in situations like this; only a lot of hugs, prayers and shedding of tears.  I once heard a pastor who lost a son say that the greater the loss, the less words should be spoken.  So true.

What about the grief one feels when their son or daughter has been with his or her significant other for years, then they break up?  Another friend experienced this loss.  And kept experiencing it on a consistent basis when her Facebook memories popped up day after day.  We get attached to people, for better or worse, and then they're gone.

Then there's the grieving of a person or a relationship long before it actually ends.  A parent that dies of dementia or a marriage that is over long before the divorce papers are signed.  Been there, done that.  There is nothing worse than being divorced and grieving your ex-spouse.  It's the loneliest of lonely places to be, as my mother-in-law told me at the time.  No truer statement was ever spoken.

The list goes on and on:  the best friend that chooses sides after the divorce, the unexpected loss of a seemingly healthy spouse you intended to grow old with, the treasured pet that leaves the house and never returns.  The loss of the baby you wanted so desperately and the loss of the baby you didn't want.

All of the events you will never experience with parents who passed away at a young age:  the weddings, the birth of children, the phone calls you can never make or take again.  Lunch dates and shopping trips you'd give anything to experience just one more time.

Sometimes grief can be about things that are not relationship related:  the loss of a home, a car, a geographical region, a dream, growing old together until death do us part.  The loss of self, loss of freedom, loss of innocence.

Grief is indeed universal.  No one will escape it as long as there is an attachment of some sort, even though many try.

You can push it aside with alcohol or drugs, gambling or shopping.  Social media.  Other relationships.  But sooner or later, grief will get the upper hand.  It will demand your attention.

The key, I think, is to embrace it.  Either deal with it now or it comes back and bites you in the ass later, with more vengeance than it would have had if it just been dealt with to begin with.  This is my opinion, of course, but one that is shared by most therapists.  And Brene Brown.

I look at the ability to deal with grief as a gift.  Honestly, I do.  But my temperament is the rarest:  one percent of the population shares my personality.  This explains so much.  It's hard to feel things on such an extreme level, day in and day out, but I am learning to embrace it and understand it's how I was created.  Leaning in and sitting with my feelings is the best way I know how to get past things.  

A few years ago I attended a GriefShare group at my church.  I went mostly because I wanted to learn more from others about the grief process.  In the end, I found I needed it just as much as everyone else.  And I discovered, again, that no one does it quite the same.  

Some throw themselves into work or some other form of activity.  I did this while grieving the loss of both parents who died within a year of each other.  I was on an airplane, traveling to Louisville, Kentucky for work, the day my father died and I was back at work the day after my mother died.  I had grieved the loss of them for years, first because the toll my brother's death took on them and then the toll dementia took.  I was nearly cried out by the time they died.  In all honesty, part of me was relieved when death finally came.  I never again had to worry about a phone call regarding some sort of drama happening in their lives.  All the drama was over.

All this to say that, just when I think I know everything about grief, including every possible kind, I learn more.  I'm grateful for the opportunity to learn from others, to hear their stories and experiences.  Even though the practice is less than ideal, I will keep running toward the burning building, hopefully aiding in someone's rescue along the way.

Because we had the most complicated of relationships. Part of me thought I would be relieved when she died. And part of me was, just not the part I thought.

I thought I would be relieved because our relationship was such a struggle, especially in the years since my brother, Scott, died. Devastated by profound loss and grief, she needed to lash out and I was an easy target. I usually am. If anyone can piss people off, it is me. Just like she wasn't, I am not always easy to handle. She was complicated; the apple didn't fall far from the tree.

For most of my life, I saw my mom's flaws much more than I saw the good. Human nature, I know, but not the best part. The best part is seeing the good, or trying to, amidst the crap.  This is probably obvious to anyone who has had a loved one die:  you realize the crap matters a lot less after they die than when they were alive.  Or at least that's hopefully the case.  There is nothing worse than being angry with someone who is no longer around to yell at.  I have been in that position as well.  More than once.

A few years before she died, I woke up and started seeing her for who she was: perfectly flawed and imperfect, strong, a warrior of sorts. She did the best she could with what she was given. And most days, it truly was enough. I expected way more of her than I should have; she did the same with me. She was giving, she had a great laugh, she was fun to be with. She was the most hospitable person I have ever known.  I mean, when she threw a party, no one walked away disappointed.  

She would have done anything for me.

Not demonstrative usually, but sometimes she surprised me. When she had breast cancer, she needed six chemo treatments. I was there with her for four of them while my father made a beeline for the exit as soon as I arrived. I had to be the strong one. Did I want to be? Of course not. No daughter wants to sit by while her mom's body is pumped with chemicals that may or may not save her life. But what choice did I have? It was the right thing to do; she would have done the same for me, I have no doubt. Even though I was angry with my dad for acting cowardly, I should have thanked him because being there with her was a gift he gave us.  I would not have missed it for the world.

When mom beat the c word, I took her on a cruise to celebrate. We had a great time and because of her outgoingness, we made friends, some that I still have to this day.  I know she appreciated the trip, just like many others I took her on. But more than that, I know she appreciated me just being there with her during that trial in her life. I know this because she gave me a card, telling me so. That blew my mind because it was just so NOT her. But maybe it WAS her and I just couldn't see it, didn't want to.  I was so focused on all the struggles we had, it was hard for me to see any light, blinded by the perceived ever-present darkness.

I still have the card.

The strength I had to sit there, to be there, was strength I inherited from her, the woman who I spent so much of my life being angry with, wasting precious time and energy. So many of her great qualities, I inherited. And many of the not-so-great ones.

But she had many gifts I would never, ever come close to having. So many.

In the end, I appreciated those gifts, more and more. I told her as much. Every time I did, she would get this far off look in her eyes, like she didn't believe my words. She wore regret like a regal robe; not many wore it better.  Except for maybe me.  Sometimes she would shake her head, sometimes she would say no, that she wasn't a good mother. She never, ever smiled and accepted the compliment.  I know she never felt good enough, yet she would never admit that. Vulnerability wasn't her strong suit. The fact that she thought not much of herself explains why she acted the way she did. Often people with the biggest insecurities act like they have none.  I finally understand this.

My mom loved me. She gave me life. She was always there when it counted. And I know it wasn't always easy. Just because you have a child doesn't mean you don't have issues with them. That is the big lie we are told. Do you love them, no matter what? Yes. But you don't always like them. In fact, she used to always say to me, "Erin, I will always love you, but right now I don't like you so much."  The words stung when she said them, but I get it now.  I have probably even said the same words to my three kids at least once.

It didn't once enter my mind that maybe I was just a huge pain in the ass a lot of the time and could have made things easier for her, for us. But I didn't.  I dug my heels in, telling myself it was my right to be angry, mad, vindictive, a rotten teenager.  It wasn't.

Time is the great teacher, of course, and when we are nearly out of it, things start to make sense.  

So my mom isn't here, it's true. I wish it weren't. But what's also true is that every time I see a dove, like I did while I was meditating that day, she is here. Not in a physical, cosmic kind of a way. I don't buy into that. More in a spiritual, emotional sense. I know she's with God, finally at peace. She did her time here on earth, taking care of me and everyone else.  Now she gets to just be her, in the presence of God, finally good enough. 

She's here in a physical sense because she lives on in me, in her grandkids, in her soon-to-be great-grandchild.   All the kindness, love and hospitality she showed to so many. Lives were impacted because she lived.

None more so than mine.

And it feels not so great.

My mom passed away on a Sunday, in the early evening, on April 18, after a long illness. Correction:  she died.  I have always disliked the term "passed away."  I know why it's used; it's less offensive somehow.  But there is no way to sugar-coat death. It stinks.  Even though her death was expected, her final hours came suddenly, without warning.  I wasn't there to say good-bye, though I made every attempt to fly back from California.  Not being with her when she passed from this life to the next breaks my heart.  I also know I am not the only person this has ever happened to, especially in a COVID world. Thousands are alone with me in this circumstance.

I am still grieving her loss and am wise enough to know, to some degree, I always will.  But there is now more time between my tears falling or the occasional meltdown that comes out of the blue.  This very morning, a sun-filled Colorado Thursday, as I sat at a stoplight after making a Starbucks run, the finality hit me square in the face:  I will never see her again in this life.  I will never have to worry about visiting the despised nursing home, with its horrible sights and smells.  I don’t have to worry about leaving there, depressed, after seeing the shell that once was my mom.  I should feel relieved, I thought.  

At moments, I am.  I never again have to hold my breath, waiting for that phone call.  Yet the grief ebbs and flows, as grief is bound to do.  As one of my favorite writers, Anne Lamott, said, "But what if the great secret insider-trading truth is that you don't ever get over the biggest losses in your life?"  Her answer is you don't.  She has a very valid, true point.  Time heals all wounds is a bunch of bunk.  Some, yes.  But not all.

Even if I wanted to get over the loss of my mom or try to briefly forget, the deluge of Mother's Day commercials on TV would not allow it.  Funny how I have never honed into them nearly as much as I do now.  Is it just me or are there about a zillion more this year?  Watching them is brutal, painful reality.

I complete a lot of online surveys in my spare time, to make a little extra cash or earn gift cards.  Lately there have been a few on the topic of Mother's Day, specifically asking what plans the survey taker has for the holiday this year.  Spending time, giving a gift, and sending flowers are some of the choices one can select.  Funny how some of them don't allow the option to choose "My mom is no longer alive" and I am in deep mourning because of it. Note to future survey writers:  include this as a potential choice from now on. Many of us are not blessed enough to have any kind of choice about how we want to spend the day, other than visit mom at the cemetery.  Or sit next to her urn of ashes.

I remember dreading many Mother's Days over the years, for different reasons. Sometimes it was because my first husband felt no obligation to ever acknowledge the day, stating in a matter-of-fact way that I was not his mother. Well, no duh. But I am the mother of your three children, I would say, exasperated. And for many years my children were too darn young to buy me a gift or take me to dinner. I recall my mom saying my father had similar attitudes, but you would have never known it. He made sure my mom received some sort of trinket, meal or both to commemorate the day. Back then, I sometimes allowed myself to spiral into the abyss more than once as the day drew near and I tried not to psyche myself up, thinking it could be better than it was the year before.  It seldom was.  Never because of my three children, mind you. They were usually the only (and the best) reason for me to look forward to the day.  If only they could have been my sole focus.

My relationship with my own mom also colored the way I viewed the day. As stated in other writings, we had a complicated relationship. My mom, in general, expected a lot and it was hard to measure up to her expectations. But I tried, I really did, oftentimes failing miserably. My kids probably feel the same way about me, at least now and then. But I am nothing if not acutely self-aware.  My mom?  Not so much.

She enjoyed being spoiled; she loved jewelry, flowers and going out to eat. Most years, I think I did a pretty good job of lavishing things on her, but, once I became a mom, the day belonged partially to me. This was not selfish, but a simple truth, one I am not sure she always understood. So, between the pressure to do the right thing and the fact that our relationship was not ever going to be featured in Hallmark commercials, the day was a struggle.

Hindsight, as we know, is always 100%. Shoulda, coulda, woulda. Those three words ring as loudly in my ears today as anything else ever does. Now that I don't have a mom, I would love to feel guilty about not doing the right thing or feel bad that we didn't have the perfect relationship. I get to do neither. All I get is to feel the void that only a mom, even an imperfect one, can fill.

So this is my first Mother's Day, in 57 years, that I am without a mom. My oldest child is nearly 29 so it is also the first time in nearly three decades that the day will truly be mine, not to be shared with the one who gave me life. Even though it should feel like a victory, it is far from it.  It just feels like a gigantic loss, one of the greatest of my life.

If you still have a mom, try to be grateful, even if your relationship is less than perfect.  Try to treat her as if this is her last Mother’s Day with you.  For it very well could be. 

Just ask me.

I know.

As we all know, sometimes tomorrow never comes, even when we have the best of intentions.

My mom up and died on me, yesterday, before I had a chance to fulfill my commitment.  She had been threatening to leave for years, creating the longest of long good-byes.  There was the time, over four years ago now, that she was given two weeks to live.  Then last November they said the same thing.  It got to the point where, when the experts said she was not long for this world, I didn't believe it.  There were so many false alarms.  

But not this time.  This time they were right when they called yesterday to tell me she had 24 to 48 hours to live. This time, however, they overestimated how long she had left. Less than six hours later, she was gone.  So, the woman who had cheated death multiple times, not only with the false alarms I just mentioned, but also beating cancer twice, had run out of lives.  Death, as it always does, won, at least temporarily.

I've written before about not just my mom's slow decline over the past ten years, but also my dad's.  Both were healthy and lived robust lives, mostly, until my brother, Scott, died.  Then the decline started. Neither of them could get over the tragic death of their beloved middle child, the one they fought so valiantly to save.  In the end, it killed them both, leaving collateral damage scattered along the way.

I don't blame my parents.  They did the best they could with what they had.

My mom lived an amazing life.  She mostly was a stay-at-home mom, but did work part-time, after we kids were self-sufficient, at the Longmont Board of Realtors in Longmont, Colorado.  She loved her job as she was about as social as a person can be.  It was a busy office and she thrived in that kind of environment.  I'm sure having an introvert daughter was perplexing to her and she oftentimes did not know how to handle me.

My parents were both from the south and were the ultimate host and hostess.  You had not lived until you were a guest at one of their shindigs.  Growing up, there were always dinner parties and plain old party parties at our house, whether it be in Oklahoma, New Jersey or Colorado. They had tons of friends and celebrated life in abundant fashion.  I stood in awe at just how good they were in the hospitality realm.  It was inspiring.  No one ever left their house hungry, thirsty or unsatisfied in any other way.  And I loved the leftovers.

At Christmas time, my mom lived in the kitchen.  Decades ago, she learned how to make chocolates and that she did, constantly, during the holidays.  She also made gingerbread men and cutout sugar cookies.  There were pounds and pounds of every kind of chocolate you could want.  "Get your plate and go downstairs and pick out what you want," she would say.  And we did.  There, in the basement, we would find container after container of mouth-watering goodness just waiting to be devoured. Oh, and I can't forget the two tons of party mix she made every holiday season. She was responsible for me gaining the Christmas five every year.

Whatever she wanted to accomplish, she did.  She was in her late 60s or early 70s when she decided she wanted to learn Italian.  Even though she was 100% Italian, she didn't grow up speaking the language, but was determined to do so.  So, she joined an Italian club and learned how to speak Italian.  She loved it and made so many friends, many of whom attended Scott's funeral.  She and dad even took a long-awaited trip to Italy when they were in their 70s.

She loved to travel, cook, eat and shop.  We were clearance rack, all day shoppers for years.  I'd pick her up and we would drive to Boulder or Aurora or Northglenn and spend the entire day shopping.  She taught me how to shop the sale racks, heading to the back of the store every time.  To this day, I only shop clearance racks. I looked forward to our monthly shopping sprees.  Of course, there were the day after Thanksgiving and Christmas sales, too, that we never missed.  We'd stop long enough only to eat lunch, always a treat that mom lavished on me.  I cherish those excursions; they were always so much fun.  I'd give anything to have just one more.

If my mom loved something, she was passionate about it.  There was no half-way with her:  it was either all or nothing.  I got that trait from her.  She was strong-willed, feisty, head-strong and, honestly, quite overbearing and difficult to deal with, at times.  Traits, also, that I inherited.  But she was giving, and she just had a way with people.  Everyone loved my mom.  She had lot of friends and made every celebration with every single one of them something to be celebrated.

She loved her grandchildren with reckless abandon.  In many ways, I think she loved them more than her kids because she was freer to just be herself, without all the baggage.  She relished the role and was just so natural at it.  I absolutely love how much she cherished my three kids.  

Like me, my mom loved to travel.  As an adult, I enjoyed several trips with her, including two cruises, a trip to Phoenix and a Vegas trip where I took her to see Tom Jones.  It seems there was always some kind of drama on these trips, not necessarily in a negative way.  My mom was nothing if not a bit dramatic.  She entertained us for years with her flair for it.

And so, it is apropos, I think, that she died like she lived.  Leaving us all in shock at just how fast she left us.  When we expected her to die, she never did.  Now that we didn't, she surprised us all and went.

When I heard the news, yesterday, that she had only 24 to 48 hours left to live, I didn't really believe it.  I was in California, for work (of course not home) and I went back and forth with myself, wondering if I should fly home or not.  I texted my kids and my brother, giving them the heads up, and they were able to visit her and say good-bye.  It was not in the cards for me, however.

Ric was with me for the weekend and was scheduled to fly home, on stand-by, last night.  I decided to go with him, unless I heard the news that she had passed before getting on the plane.  In dramatic, mom-like fashion, right before the ticket counter opened, she made her way from this world to the next.  I just had to laugh, a few hours later, while thinking about it.

From a spiritual standpoint, I know her days were numbered by God.  Scripture tells me so and I believe it.  She was not on this Earth one second more or less than she was destined to be.  But there sure were many times I felt like she was calling the shots in death as she had in life.  The way everything played out, it just all seemed so much like...her.

Though I didn't get to see her before she died, I was able to say my good-byes last November when death, again, was supposedly imminent.  I prayed she would be coherent, and she was.  It was the best visit I could have hoped for, where I said all I needed to say, and she responded.  Even though she had Alzheimer's, there was never a time I saw her that she didn't know who I was.  I am grateful for that.

I am also thankful that I was given the mom I had.  I couldn't always say this.  Our relationship was complicated, as many mother-daughter relationships are.  But she loved me, of that I am certain.  She did the very best that she could and, most of the time, it was enough.  I never lacked for food or shelter or clothes or attention.  Or love.

I'm broken-hearted at the loss of her, for sure.  But I'm more heartbroken that I lost out on many years with her due to many circumstances, all out of my control. I've been saying good-bye to her for nearly ten years which makes the final one not as difficult as it would be otherwise.

I've had years to grieve, to shed tears, to lament, to regret.

To honor her in the way she deserves, I am going to go forward in life, being the best mom, wife, friend, sister, aunt, cousin, niece, grandmother (some day) and co-worker I can be.  To cherish each moment, as best I can.  To be fully present.

I have huge shoes to fill.  My only hope is I can fill them in a way that is worthy of Mary Rose Kiker.  My mom.

My soul was in turmoil, as I prayed for the timing.  Should I go back to Louisville for my last two weeks of work and miss out on two weeks of being with my dad.  Or should I stay in Colorado?  I needn't have fretted over the details for God, in His sovereignty, took care of it all.

Saturday night, as my kids gathered around our kitchen table, having fun and bantering back and forth, I sat on my bed upstairs, in the arms of my husband, and had a meltdown.  I sobbed and sobbed, the culmination of years of grieving and saying good-bye to my father.

It was early the next day, a brilliant, blue-skied Colorado morning, when I woke up, looked at my phone and saw the missed calls from my brother, Eric.  I had promised to put my phone on do not disturb Saturday night so his calls would make it through.  Somehow, I screwed up, missing that morning's calls.  I knew instantly that my dad was gone.  I called Eric back, told Ric we needed to go, threw on some clothes and got in the car.

It's funny how survival mode takes over in a crisis.  I had been here before:  with my brother, Scott, with my ex-husband, John.  With my friend, Amy.  You do what you must do to get by, then you lose it later on.  At least I do.

When I arrived at the nursing home, Eric and my mom were in a different room, giving my mom a break from staring at my father's lifeless body.  The three of us, all that remained now of our fragmented, broken family, went together down the hall to the room where my father's lifeless body lay, his soul long departed.  I remember looking at it in disbelief, willing myself to admit he was gone.  My strong father, who like a cat, had lived nine lives and then some, had finally succumbed to his archenemy, the thing he feared more than anything else.  Death.  Even he could not elude it again.

I've been teary for a few days, a strong believer in anniversaries and what they mean.  I expected to feel this way.  I cannot believe it has been a year; it has flown by.  Of course, COVID ramped up right after his death, taking a front and center stage in my life as well as everyone else's.  So, of course, there was no service for my dad, no finality. Just a cold, rigid body, lying on a cold bed.  That is what his life had come to.

Since that day, I've written about my father many times and thought about him as I've been writing my memoir.  Bits and pieces come, when I least expect it. Some memories bring smiles, some tears.  Not all memories of my father are pleasant.  Last week my husband made corn bread for the first time; it was amazingly delicious and one of my favorite things to eat.  I grew up with two Southern parents and corn bread was a staple in our household.  

Ric had made fish stew as well.  He crumbled his cornbread up and mixed it in with his stew.  He said it tasted great.  I said I was more of a purist; I didn't like my cornbread mixed into anything.  I enjoyed it all by itself.  Then I had a vision of my dad; one of his favorite things was to mix his cornbread with milk and eat it with a spoon.  I shared this with Ric, and it made both of us smile.  My dad loved food, loved life, and clung to it with all that he had.  He turned every eating occasion an experience.

When I was just a child, I remember going to the gas station.  Dad would buy the Coke that came in bottles back then and small packages of peanuts.  We all thought it was a treat to empty our peanuts into ice-cold coke and drink, following dad's lead. The combination of salt and sweet was irresistible.  Dad made eating an adventure.  Even up to the end, he could not resist a can of Coke.  It was his drink of choice.

In my spare time, I participate in focus groups and marketing tests where I get paid to give opinions and taste products.  Today a 2-liter bottle of Coke appeared in a box on our front porch.  The irony of it didn't hit me, quite honestly, until right now.  Ric made a comment about why anyone would need to taste Coke.  It's not like it hasn't been around forever.

If my dad were here, he would know the answer to the rhetorical question.  And even though he's not, God has a way of doing these kinds of things, at least in my life, to remind me I am not alone, He is here, and He knows just how very much I miss my dad, how I need reminders of the good in him from time to time.  It takes the sting out of going through life without him.

A few weeks ago, I was looking for some of my old writings when I came across a book of poems my dad had written.  Most of them seemed to be from before he married my mom, several speaking of his longing to be with her.  I didn't know my dad was a writer, though he had a way with words.  In addition to that, he was a teacher/trainer when he worked for the FAA and Martin Marietta.  The parallels in our lives is undeniable as I love to write, and I love to teach.  I got so many wonderful qualities from him.

The sadness I feel regarding the loss of my father will never truly go away.  I know and accept that fact.  But I also realize that, the more I focus on the goodness of his well-lived life, the more I can rejoice in the time I had with him and, hopefully, not take for granted the time I have with other people I love.

Oh, may we all remember life is fleeting and do the same!

And a wife, three daughters and the rest of the World is now cheated out of what could have been. So it is with grief. All of us, at one time or another, will taste its bitterness; maybe not as dramatic as a loved one dying unexpectedly in a helicopter crash, but it will come. Oh, it will come. And we, too, will feel cheated, left with the reality of what is and the fantasy of what could have been. If you have not been there, believe me, you will be, at some point.

Regardless of how, when, where or why, the pain of losing someone, whether through physical death, the death of a relationship or some other way, is devastating. But the effects on individuals left behind are as numerous as the ways in which one can die.

When I found out about Kobe, I was in my rental car, sitting at a stoplight in Louisville, KY. When I glanced down at my phone, I saw an email alert with Kobe's name in the subject line.  I opened the email and was shocked at the news, almost disbelieving, as it was reported many others were as well. The first thing I did when I got back to my hotel was turn on the news to watch the coverage. That was about 3:30 PM EST; I didn't move from the couch until 10:30, glued to the endless coverage, not learning much more than the who and the how; the why would not be explained, as if that was a question each one of us would have to answer for ourselves. 

Like millions of others, Kobe meant something to me personally. Years ago, when Kobe arrived on the scene, I was obsessed with him. I had always been a sports fan and loved basketball. He was unlike anyone else that had gone before him. Only 17, he was a born superstar and I was awestruck. I became a Lakers fan, watching many games and enjoying every minute. Clearly, I was not alone in my awe and admiration.

Of course, Kobe, like everyone else, had his flaws and things in his past that he, I'm sure, felt regret over. On Sunday, when I heard the news, all I wanted to remember was the fondness I had felt for Kobe years ago, all the moments I was mesmerized by his talent and his good looks. On this day, the negative faded, replaced instantly with only the positive. Isn't that the way grief also works: even though there may have been bad, we only remember the good. I suppose that is the way it should be. 

A friend of mine, on the very same day, referring to a different type of loss she had recently experienced, said that she felt like there would always be two places in her heart for the person she lost: the part with all the good memories and the broken-heart part. Very profound, I must admit, and spot-on. I agreed with her, stating that this is how grief always works; when you love someone and lose them, there are always good and bad memories. If there were only the bad, perhaps it would be easier to move past the loss. 

I spoke with someone else yesterday, someone who had many fond memories of watching the amazing Lakers in person. I sat down, feeling the need to ask this person how he felt about the loss of Kobe. Maybe I knew he needed to talk or maybe I just needed to listen. He was devastated by the death of Kobe, sadder, he said, then when he heard that Prince had died. He said the loss was something he would feel for a very long time, due to all of his memories of watching basketball in person in LA, seeing Kobe in all his brilliance on his home court.  He kept referring back to the memories, over and over again, a distant look in his eyes.

Countless people, young and old, rich and poor, white and black, posted on social media, granted interviews on TV, cried and laughed when remembering Kobe. Even at the Grammys, held Sunday night, Alicia Keys and the rest of the music world wept tears of sadness regarding Kobe's passing while singing songs of tribute to him. The World, it seemed, for once, was in complete and total unison, grieving as one.  Though the situation was tragic, it sure was nice to have a respite from all the backbiting and political nonsense taking place right now.

Many of us seemingly forgot about the others who perished that day. Some chose to point out on social media that Kobe wasn't the only one that died and that we needed to remember the families of those who also lost loved ones. And, of course, they are right: we do need to remember. At least four other families lost children, mothers, fathers, siblings, uncles, aunts, and cousins. People lost friends and co-workers. At least four other families would never, ever look at life in the same way as they did that early Winter Sunday morning when life was so full of promise, filled with the possibility of budding, talented basketball players ready to display their prowess to all who cared to watch.

Little did anyone know that morning, when Kobe chose to share his wealth and fly several other people to a basketball tournament, how the day would end. All of the passengers on that helicopter must have thought they won the lottery, flying in style in Kobe's private copter, instead of being stuck in nightmare LA traffic.  Given the chance, who among us would not have jumped at the opportunity?

Sadly, for the families left behind, the nightmare is just beginning.  Hopefully, Kobe's legacy and the legacies of all the others lost that day will live on in the lives of those  left behind.  And hopefully the rest of us will remember just how fleeting life is and learn to say I love you and I forgive you much more often and much more freely.

A few months earlier I had filed for divorce from my husband – their father – of 20 years.  The months leading up to my decision had been dramatic and traumatic. 

Shortly after John left our house, my children began to ask me if we could get a cat.  I told them I would think about it.  But deep in my heart I longed to have a cat as I had not had one since I was in my early 20s; now I was in my mid-40s. 

You may wonder why they all of a sudden wanted a cat.  John was allergic to cats so we could never have one before.  My kids knew I loved cats, but they did as well, even though their exposure to them had been limited to strays that came and went in our neighborhood.  I strongly desired to introduce Joseph, James and Alessandra to the joy of cat ownership!

In early February I took the kids to a local pet store that featured rescue cats from animal shelters; they saw a cat they felt they could not live without, but I was hesitant.  I told them we would go back in a week. Something was holding me back…

The following week we returned, only to find the cat they wanted had been adopted.  They whined, moaned and blamed me for everything, lamenting the fact that if we had just gotten that cat... They should have known better; I was never one to make impulsive decisions.

Even though the cat they wanted was gone, there was another cat there that night.  He was light gray and gorgeous; he had yellow eyes that looked like Halloween.  In a word, he was amazing.  He meowed, swiping his paws through the cage at us.  I reached into the cage and picked him up; my kids smiled awkwardly.  How sad that they were teenagers, but had never had a cat as a pet.  In my heart, I thanked God that they had inherited my love of animals.

After holding the cat and petting him, we knew he was the one. 

We paid the fee, bought all the supplies and loaded everything, including our new prized possession, into my tiny sports car.  He mewed like I imagine he never mewed before.  He was definitely not used to going on car rides, especially without a carrier.  My kids had both a sense of wonderment and sheer terror on the five minute car ride home.  They had never seen anything like this before!

Once home, our cat roamed from room to room, mewing loudly as he went.  My kids looked at me, their eyes asking, “Mom, what do we do?”  I told them it was natural for a cat to act like this in new surroundings, trying hard to convince them while at the same time convincing myself.  It had been so long since I had a cat…could I really handle the responsibility?

We filled the cat’s brand new blue bowls with food and water.  He touched neither.  The kids worried, wondering why he would not eat or drink.  I suggested we put a bit of milk in a bowl and he lapped it up like there was no tomorrow.  He began to calm down after that, settling in, as did we.

I then told my kids the obvious:  we needed to give him a name.  I can’t even remember what names we considered, but we decided on Chip.  It was generic and goofy, it suited a dog more than a cat, but we all loved it.  And it just fit.

As the days went by, Chip embraced his new life…and we embraced him.  My children adored him.  It was amazing to watch these kids, who had never had a cat, love on the amazing creature that someone saw fit to toss out like yesterday’s garbage.  That broke my heart.  But seeing my kids embrace one of God’s creatures took the pain away, in many different ways.

Even though our cat’s name was Chip, I dubbed him my freedom cat.  I know on the surface that may sound horrible, but I don’t mean it that way.  I was married for 20 years and divorce was the last thing I ever wanted.  But as the years went by, John had become more and more emotionally abusive. I felt like a prisoner in my own home and I just wanted – needed – some peace.  I found a fragment of that peace in Chip.

When I divorced John, it was painful.  Not just for me, but for our kids.  We needed any shred of hope we could find.  In a significant way, Chip was that hope to me.  He was so much more than just a ball of fur with beautiful yellow eyes.  He represented freedom to me because he came into my life when I had to re-discover who I was, a time when something that was lost suddenly was replaced by something found.  He was a cat that we rescued, but, in reality, he rescued me. Chip was my freedom cat, in every sense of the word.  I loved him more than words can ever express.

Sadly, my freedom cat loved his freedom more than he loved us.  He must have been an outdoor cat in his previous life, but we tried as hard as we could to convert him.  Silly humans, we were.  Chip loved to hunt.  Whenever he could sneak out of the house, he did, but he always came back, most of the time with a bird, mouse or something unrecognizable that he would place on our back porch.  Until the one day when he didn’t come back.

We had only had Chip for a few years when we let him out one early morning and he never returned.  Every day, many times a day, I would open the back door and call him.  We frantically drove around the neighborhood to see if he had been run over.  We searched every local shelter’s website.  We visited many of those shelters to see if pictures translated into the real thing.  Chip never turned up.  I searched for him for weeks, knowing I would want someone to do the same for me if I went missing.  I would not want anyone to ever give up on me. My search was futile.  My freedom cat had forever found his.

Thankfully my broken heart healed, thanks in large part to a certain tuxedo cat named Dip.  YES, Dip.  My teenage daughter had talked my boyfriend and me into adopting Dip about three months before Chip made his grand escape.  At the time we were so hesitant, not wanting to take on another cat.  Soon I realized that, just like Chip, Dip was our destiny, our fate.  Had I not had Dip in my life when Chip left, it would have made Chip’s disappearance that much harder.  Just like God knew that I needed Chip to heal my broken parts, he also knew I would need consolation when Chip left. Dip was a God-send then and continues to be.

All of my kids have now moved out of our house and my boyfriend is now my husband.  So it’s just the three of us now; Dip is a wonderful cat and grows more affectionate and precious each day.  I love him with all of my heart.  But Chip?  He will now – and forever – be so much more than just a cat.  He will forever be my freedom cat.