Just let me grieve.

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Please, Don’t Tell Her How to Grieve

She’s in the kitchen, washing dishes with her back to you. You approach her quietly, two cups in hand. Fingerprints were smudged on the glass. A few gulps of milk were still sloshing around inside. You set them beside the sink and glance at her apologetically.
She doesn’t notice.
Steam rises from the faucet as scorching water pours over her hands, scrubbing absently at an already clean pot. Her gaze isn’t on the dishes. It’s fixed out the window.
You follow her line of sight, watching a red bird flit about in a bush at the back corner of the yard. When you look back at her, her expression has clouded over. Her eyes, heavy with sorrow, blink slowly as if to hold back something that can no longer be contained.
And then, a single tear escapes.
Suddenly, the dishes don’t matter anymore.
It’s back again.
You’ve been tiptoeing around it, avoiding the mess it creates each time it resurfaces. You’ve given so much of yourself to hold her up because the world feels like it crumbles whenever she falls apart.
And you’ve caught yourself wondering… When will she get over it? When will the tears stop? When will the memories stop tormenting her?
When will she finally move on?
I know you want to tell her it will be okay. That everyone loses someone they love, and time will heal her pain. You want to remind her that she’s not alone in this.
I know you want to say something. Anything.
But above all, please, don’t tell her how to grieve.
When she cries, don’t try to quell her tears. She’s not drowning in them. She’s swimming through the memories of love they shared.
When she speaks of them, don’t change the subject because you think it’s too painful. It’s more painful to bury the memories than to let them be.
And as the days pass, don’t ask her to move on. She’s not stuck. The person she’s mourning will always be a part of her, and she will always be a part of them. Death didn’t break that bond. Time won’t either.
The tears will stop for now. But they may return tomorrow, or next week, or in twenty years. And when they do, it’s because the love they shared is everlasting.
There’s nothing you can say that will change this. Nothing you can do to make it easier.
So please, don’t tell her how to grieve.
Just hold her hand. Listen to her stories. Walk beside her through the sorrow.
You may not be the one she’s missing, but you’re the one she has left.
And sometimes, your quiet presence is all she needs to get through. ♥️

A letter from your late loved one.

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Hi. This is your late loved one speaking. I don’t have long, so listen up because I have a lot I want to tell you.

First off, I get it.

Ever since I left this world you have missed me, and I know you’re bracing for the holidays without me. No matter what anyone says, this year’s festivities are going to be really tough.

In fact, let’s be honest, this festive season will probably suck pondwater. But then, Thanksgiving and Christmas are tough holidays for a lot of people. You’re not alone.

See, the misconception about the holidays is that they are one big party. That’s what every song on the radio claims. Each television commercial you see shows happy families clad in gaudy Old Navy sweaters, carving up poultry, smiling their perfect Hollywood teeth at the camera. But that’s not exactly reality.

In reality, fifty-eight percent of Americans admit to feeling severely depressed and anxious during November and December. In reality many folks will cry throughout the “most wonderful time of the year.”

Well, guess what? Nobody is crying up here in heaven. This place is unreal. There is, literally, too much beauty to take in. Way too much.

For starters—get this—time doesn’t even exist anymore. Which I’m still getting used to.

Right now, for all I know, the calendar year down on Earth could be 1728, 4045, 1991, or 12 BC. It really wouldn’t matter up here. This is a realm where there is no ticking clock, no schedule. Up here there is only this present moment. This. Here. Now. That’s all there has ever been. And there is real comfort in this.

I know this all seems hard to grasp, but if you were here you’d get it.

Also, for the first time I’m pain free. I feel like a teenager again in my body. You probably don’t realize how long I’ve lived with pain because I never talked about it, I kept my problems to myself because I was your loved one, and you needed me to be brave.

But pain is a devious thing. It creeps up on even the strongest person, little by little, bit by bit. Until pretty soon, pain becomes a central feature of life.

Sometimes my pain would get so bad it was all I thought about. No, I’m not saying that my life was miserable—far from it. I loved being on earth. It’s just that simply waking up each morning was getting exhausting.

But, you know what? Not anymore. In this new place, I am wholly and thoroughly happy.

But enough about me. I don’t have room to describe all the terrific things I’m experiencing, and you don’t need to hear them. Right now, you’re grieving, and what you need is a hug.

Which is why I’m writing to you. This is my hug to you. Because you’ve lost sight of me. And in fact, you’ve lost sight of several important things lately.

Death has a way of blinding us. It reorganizes the way you think, it changes you. You will never be the same after you lose someone. It messes with your inner physiology. It reorganizes you’re neurons.

But then, there’s one teensy little thing you’re forgetting:

I’m still around.

Yes, you read that correctly, I’m right here with you. No, you can’t see me. No, you can’t reach out and hold me. But did you know that one of the things I’m allowed to do as a heavenly being is hang out with you?

It’s true. I’m never far away. I’m in the room with you now, along with a big cloud of ancestors, saints, and witnesses. I’m shooting the breeze alongside you, watching you live your life, watching you raise your kids, watching your private moments of sorrow.

Here, in this new realm, I am in the perfect position to help you learn things. Which is what I vow to spend the rest of your earthly life doing, teaching you little lessons, lending you a hand when you least expect it, and desperately trying to make you smile. Actually, I’ve already been doing this stuff, you just don’t realize it.

What, you don’t believe me?

Well, wake up, pal. You know that tingle you get in your spine whenever you think of me? That’s me.

You know how, just yesterday, you had a beautiful memory when you were driving and it made you cry so hard that it actually felt good and you began to laugh through tears? Also me.

You know how sometimes when you’re all alone, preoccupied with something else, suddenly you get this faint feeling that someone is standing in the room with you? Hello? Me.

You’re not alone on this earth. You never were. You never will be. So during this holiday season, when cheerful families are getting together and making merry, and taking shots of eggnog, I’m going to be clinging to your shoulder, helping you muddle through somehow.

I’ll be making your spinal column tingle a lot, and I’ll be sending plenty of signs. Each of these signs—every single one—is code for “I love you.” So start paying attention to these hints.

Because this was one.

Shared from Emma McCartney

The duck that’ll never die…

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The Story of Quacky: A Christmas Duck Full of Memories

Let me tell you a story about a duck. Not just any duck—this is a special duck. A duck that has been part of our family since 1994. It’s a plush, quacking Christmas duck by House of Lloyd. But, trust me, it’s not the brand or the fact that it’s 29 years old that makes it special. Let me tell you what makes it really special.

This duck, affectionately named Quacky (he’s Daffy Duck’s cousin in my childlike imagination), has been a Christmas tradition for me and many of my cousins since it was first purchased by my Grandmom all those years ago. Every Christmas, Grandmom’s house would transform into a holiday wonderland—bright lights, twinkling garland, the delicious smell of treats, and of course, Quacky sitting on the couch, waiting for us to make him sing Christmas carols.

Even as an adult, I’d visit Grandmom’s during the holidays, and there he’d be, sitting on the couch just as he had been for years. I’d laugh, give him a hug, and make him quack the silliest Christmas songs. No matter how old I got, Quacky was always there to remind me of the magic of Christmas.

But here’s the twist. You see, this isn’t just a stuffed duck. It’s a treasure trove of memories. It’s joy. It’s love. It’s a piece of Christmas that connects me to the past, and more than that, to my Grandmom, who I knew would smile every time she saw us play with Quacky.

About five years ago, Grandmom asked if I wanted to take Quacky home to keep for Christmas. Without hesitation, I said, “Yes!” A stuffed animal? Yes, I know. It’s silly, but Quacky was full of so much joy, and it felt like a piece of my Grandmom I could hold onto.

Flash forward to this year—the first Christmas without Grandmom. I couldn’t wait to share Quacky with my daughter. She’s obsessed with ducks—she quacks all the time, and I knew she’d love Quacky just as much as I did. It was going to be magical.

But then, something unexpected happened. This year, when we put the batteries in Quacky—after nearly three decades of holiday quacking—the duck went silent.

Nothing. No Christmas carols. Just silence.

It’s hard to explain to anyone who doesn’t know how important Quacky is, but for me, it felt like a small piece of the world had gone quiet. This was the first Christmas I was spending without my Grandmom, and it felt like Quacky had given his last quack with her.

I tried to find another one. I found one on eBay, but the price was steep, and I couldn’t guarantee it would even work. And as much as I thought about buying another one, I realized that the true value of Quacky isn’t in the sound he makes. It’s in the memories he holds.

After tears, heartbreak, and a few moments of questioning whether I should “retire” Quacky for good, I made a decision. We’re keeping him. Even though he no longer quacks, Quacky is still full of memories. He’s still special, and I’m going to share him with my daughter. She won’t know the joy of hearing his carols, but we can still make him quack. We can be the voice of Quacky, just like my Grandmom did for me.

In a way, this silent duck is a reminder that love and memories don’t have to sound a certain way to be felt. Even when someone is no longer here with us, we can keep their voice alive by telling stories, laughing, and remembering the special moments we shared.

Quacky may be silent, but his spirit is alive. And so is my Grandmom’s. I’ll tell my daughter about her. I’ll keep the memories of her alive. And every Christmas, Quacky will be there, in our home, a symbol of the love, joy, and tradition that still lives on.

To say I’ve cried over a stuffed duck might sound silly to some, but if you truly understand the meaning of what this little duck represents, then you know why I’ve shed those tears. It’s not just a duck—it’s everything it carries: the laughter, the love, the memories of a woman who shaped so much of my childhood and my life.

So, here’s to Quacky, the duck that will never die. He’s more than just a plush toy; he’s a living memory. And I hope, when you look up at the stars this holiday season, you’ll think of my Grandmom. Tell her we miss her and that we’re okay. Even Quacky is okay.

And as you’re going about your holiday season, don’t forget to reach out to your loved ones. If someone is no longer with you this year, honor their memory. Speak their name out loud. Keep their love alive, because they would want you to.

Happy Holidays to all of you. 🦆❤️

November hurts

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We had plans to go see some family the weekend before Halloween. We were taking Bean to see her great grandmothers in north Texas. On Friday, I decided that waiting until next weekend was a bad idea. Call it intuition, call it a hunch, call it whatever you want.

I marched into hubman’s office and told him we needed to pack up and leave today. This was Friday, October 20th. He didn’t ask questions. He just finished up his work for the day and we were on the road.

On Saturday, October 21st, we walked in to surprise Grandmom Grace. She had no idea we were coming to see her and to see the smile on her face when we walked in was absolutely the best thing ever.

Grandmom held our sweet Ady, gave her lots of hugs and kisses and told her she’s just beautiful. We ate lunch with Grandmom and visited for a few hours before Ady got cranky and decided it was nap time.

It was the hug. The hug when we said “see ya later” just hit different. I told Grandmom that we’d be back for her birthday, but somehow I knew… I knew in my heart that we wouldn’t be having a party this year. Though teary eyes and with a heavy heart I hugged her a bit tighter. I kissed her cheek and tried not to let her see my face as I walked away. Hearing her talk about how precious our daughter is melted my heart.

Later that week, Grandmom ended up in the hospital. She fought like the dickens and eventually went to rehab to get stronger.

Unfortunately, getting stronger and going back home to be her feisty self wasn’t how this story ends.

We lost my precious Grandmom Grace on Thursday, November 16th. Knowing that she got to know our Ady is the only thing I wanted. I wanted her to hold her, talk to her, love her, AND SHE DID. Ady will always know her Grandmom Grace. She’ll hear stories and we’ll share memories with her as much as much as we possibly can.

As I sit here at 4am typing this, tomorrow we are going to Grandmom’s visitation and Monday we’ll have her service to say our final goodbyes. Almost to the day, we lost another precious grandmother, Nonnie 6 years ago. November hurts.

I hope one day Ady knows how incredibly special she was to her. Grandmom thought Ady was the best little princess in the entire world.

I’d like to think that Ady and the rest of the family didn’t lose Grandmom, we just gained one of the best angels there ever was to have wings.

Welcome home, Grandmom. Please watch over us because this world is cruel and we need all the help we can get from our angels. I love you. Ady loves you. You’ll NEVER be forgotten.

View Grandmom’s obituary here.

I’m not sure I have anymore words for right now. My heart hurts. I’ve lost my best friend. So for now, I’ll leave you with some unsolicited advice: Call your grandparents. Call your parents. Call your siblings and your cousins. Go see them if you can. Hug them tight. TELL THEM YOU LOVE THEM! You never know when that will be the last time.

Hopfully my next post will be a bit more cheerful. For now, I’m going to flip my pillow over and try to fall asleep so that I’m not a complete zombie when I see my family tomorrow.

I LOVE YOU ALL. SERIOUSLY.