Friday, August 24, 2018


Yesterday was my daughter's first day of First Grade.  And like many parents, I took some photos to commemorate the occasion.  Later that morning, when I was looking them over, I saw that I gotten a pretty cute one of my daughter standing next to a sunflower she planted earlier this summer.  My first thought was, "Oh!  I'll have to print this one for Grandma Betty."

And a wave of grief rushes in.  Grandma Betty died three weeks ago. 

Grief is such a funny thing.  The way you have absolutely no control over what will trigger you. 

Grandma Betty's death wasn't unexpected.  In fact, when my phone rang that morning three weeks ago, I knew exactly what was waiting for me on the other end of the line. I don't even think I said hello to my mother.  I answered the phone with, "Is Dad okay?"

He was, and I was too.

I didn't cry during that phone call. I didn't cry when I told my husband.  And I (surprisingly) didn't even cry when I told my daughter. I cried when I went to Grandma Betty's house a couple of days later.  I was overwhelmed with grief just being in a place where she was *supposed* to be, but wasn't. 

My birthday was about a week ago, and Grandma Betty didn't call me.  She didn't send a card that included a paragraph about what she'd been doing or a detailed report of her most recent visit to the doctor. There wasn't five dollars tucked into the envelope with a note that said, "Go buy yourself a little something."  My sister gently pointed out that she might not have done those things anyway, considering she had been recovering in the nursing home recently.  But the grief seemed to hit in the realization that she would never call me on my birthday ever again.  The grief smacks me with the hard truth that I am now "grandparent-less." 

I'd like to tie this all up in a nice bow, and tell you how I feel her smiling down on me and it's all going to be alright.  But I know these waves, these moments of grief, will keep coming. The spaces between them will increase, the intensity of the feelings may decrease, but I think the grief will always be there.

I remember reading once that "grief is just love with no place to go."  So maybe I'm not being hit with waves of grief at all.  Maybe it's just waves of love. And I'm not about to wish those away. 

Friday, August 17, 2018

Used To Be...

I used to be a writer.

Okay, maybe not.  I've never really been published outside of the local newspaper and a college magazine. But I used to feel like a writer. And now, I can't remember the last time I actually edited a piece of my own writing.

I often feel like the designated proof-reader in my family. I've edited college papers for BOTH my sisters, and as they've transitioned into their adult lives - that has turned into editing press releases/stories for my sister in marketing and editing playbills/bios for my sister the drama teacher. And I love it. I feel smart. I feel useful. I feel helpful. I feel like I'm doing something of value - especially when the hum-drums of my current state of "stay-at-home Mom-ness" feel like they are backing up on me.

And I want to write again.

So maybe that's what this is about. Getting back to a creative outlet that I used to enjoy. I've blogged before - about a previous weight-loss project (the blog and the project lasted less than 40 posts back in 2009-2010) and again while I was pregnant with my daughter (started in 2011, unexpectedly took a year off and just got back into it a couple months ago). I used to sit down and write (bad) fiction, or just type general musings about life into Word documents. (Or maybe it was WordPerfect, did anyone else use that program?) I've won a couple of essay contests, I've read Stephen King's book "On Writing". I used to feel like a writer.

Let's get back to that.