This weekend did not go as planned. Not at all.
We left for our usual 4th of July lake trip on Wednesday despite a forecast that promised rain all weekend. My brother and his family arrived on Thursday afternoon, and we all hoped the weather would clear. We cooked, ate well, and spent a few hours in the water, laughing and catching up. Even so, it turned out to be the coldest, rainiest 4th of July I can remember. Still, being together made the weekend meaningful—there’s always comfort in family, even when plans fall apart.
Saturday morning changed everything. My brother and I each received a message from our mother: Grammy wasn’t doing well. Over the past few weeks she had been in and out of the hospital with a persistent blood infection. At 92, her body couldn’t fight it the way a younger person might. When I called my mother, she told me plainly that if I wanted to see Grammy while she was still alive, I needed to come now.
We packed up, finished breakfast, and hit the road as fast as we could. The drive took more than three hours. We hoped to arrive in time, but sadly she passed away before we reached her. I didn’t get to tell her, in person, the countless little reasons I loved her or to thank her one last time for being the incredible grandmother she was. That regret is heavy, but it is joined by gratitude for all the years and memories we shared.
Grammy and I were inseparable. She adored me and made sure I knew I was special—after all, I was her first grandchild. I can still see the little girl I was when our family moved several hours away from her when I was six. I would lie in bed crying for my grandmother, clutching the oversized stuffed bunny she had given me. Those small acts of love are etched in my memory.
In recent years her memory faded and her body grew frail, but her spirit always filled a room. Even when I visited a few months ago, she wanted to rock me in her lap like she had when I was a child. At 32 I couldn’t fully sit on her anymore—she was too delicate—but I would snuggle close and hold her hand. She was my buddy, my first best friend, and she treated me like her baby for as long as she could.
Now that she’s gone, everything feels strange and a little hollow. Earlier today I was at her house and kept expecting her to be in the kitchen, to walk back into the room at any moment. Even when someone lives a long, full life, letting them go never feels easy. The routines and small presences they leave behind keep echoing in the house.
I find comfort in hope and in memory. I like to picture Grammy reunited with Grandy and all her brothers and sisters—she was one of eleven—laughing together, perhaps playing Boggle or working a crossword, probably sharing a bowl of Rotel cheese dip with Ruffles potato chips. Those comforting, vividly ordinary scenes help me believe she’s in a place of joy and company.
If I seem a little absent this week, please know I’m not gone—I’m simply honoring and grieving the loss of a woman who was kind, loving, sassy, friendly, and beautiful in every way I had the privilege to know. I’m taking time to remember her stories, her laugh, the way she made everyone feel welcome and cared for.
I am grateful for the years we had together and for the countless small moments that made her such an important part of my life. Her love shaped me in ways I’ll carry forward, and those lessons—about kindness, humor, family, and presence—will continue to guide me.
Love you, Grammy!