Here it is, January 15th, and I am posting a piece I wrote on New Year's Day and had planned to post the next day. Obviously, that didn't happen, but, what else is new, right?! It still has a lot of good thoughts in it, and I'm hoping that in reading it, you will find something that helps you, too. 

January 1, 2024

Sometimes it seems like only yesterday since Brian died. Yet, other times, it feels like it was so very long ago. So here it is, New Year’s Day . . . the third time that I have started a new year, knowing that he wouldn’t be in it with me. 2023 was eventful in many ways. Probably the most significant of those was the loss of my sister-in-law, Pat. At the request of my youngest brother, I traveled to Colorado at the end of September to be, as he put it, “emotional and moral support.” His reason: “Because you are one of the few people I know who really understands how I’m feeling right now.”

About a year ago, Pat had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s — the very same disease that took her mother at an early age. When Pat turned 50 she had a celebration with her girlfriends because she had made it to the age when her mother was diagnosed. There was no sign of her nemesis and she was still “OK.” Fast forward to 2022, and at 62 she found herself thrust into that scenario she had so hoped to avoid. And, as if the rapidly advancing Alzheimer’s wasn’t enough, in the spring of 2023 the doctors found colon cancer. Things were going along as good as could be expected given what she was fighting. Then, just when things looked like they might be making progress, she was diagnosed with stomach cancer as well. Treating one made the other worse. She spent most of her time in the hospital, becoming sicker and weaker each day, and more and more confused as well. Her family never left her side. Eventually, they made the decision to bring her home on Hospice. And this is where I entered the picture. We all knew, that like Brian, when she came home she did not have much time left. Like him, she last only five days, and though heavily sedated and, for the most part unresponsive, it was obvious that she none-the-less had been granted her wish — spending her final days on this earth in the place that she loved, surrounded by those she loved most — her family. And, after the good times had been remembered and the final kisses and goodbyes had been given, in the quiet the early morning, she slipped peacefully through the veil between this world and the next, leaving behind her disease and her suffering . . . and those who loved her dearly.

I’m going to be honest. When my brother asked me to come, I was hesitant. And scared. I knew I would find myself stepping back in time two and a half years ago to Brian’s death. I knew that I would again find myself waiting for death to knock on the door, and for an earthly life to end and a heavenly one to begin. I was afraid of how I would react. I wondered if I could mentally and emotionally handle it all . . . again. Trust me, I did my best to convince myself that I shouldn’t go, but I was never able to make that stick. As terrified as I was, as much as I wanted to leave all those memories behind me and not relive them, I still went. I went because my brother asked me to come. Because I knew the drill. And, because of all those things, I knew that I had gifts that needed to be shared, and this was the time to do it. It felt to me that maybe, helping others through grief was turning into “my thing.” And though it is still confusing to me, in the end, I decided that if God thought I could do it — which he must because he kept sending me to things like this — then who was I to question my ability?

Over the past two and a half years following Brian’s death, I have been doing the hard work of carving out a new path for my life; of navigating the grief ambushes and finding my way out of the darkness of death and back into the light of life. I’m getting better at finding smiles, laughter, new friends, and a renewed sense of purpose. I know that I am moving forward — forging a new path. However, doing things like this visit are still difficult and make painful memories bubble to the surface, causing tears to fall. But I have noticed that the tears have changed from the early days of my grief. Instead of floods of tears that are accompanied by heartbreaking sobs and feelings of despair and hopelessness, they are quiet tears, gently tracing cherished memories of days gone by as they quietly slip down my cheeks. They come . . . and they go, and they don’t stay for very long. That is progress.

All of this is not what I imagined my life would be like at this point. It’s nothing I ever wanted, much less thought I would be capable of doing. Still, here I am, doing it. By posting on this blog, by sitting with others in their grief, and by sharing what I have learned, I am paying it forward. I am making a difference, and that helps me find meaning and acceptance where once there was only disbelief and denial; smiles where there was once only despair and sadness; and peace and comfort where there was turmoil and discontent.

I’m grateful and honored that my brother requested my presence at such a sacred moment in his life. It’s something I will treasure forever. I don’t know exactly where it is that I am headed right now, and I may not even know I have arrived when I get there. But I know in my heart and in my head that I am on a new journey and making a difference along the way. And for now, that’s good enough.

Happy New Year, and “May God bless us, Everyone!”