Life’s Mysteries

I haven’t written here in a while, mostly because I didn’t have anything to say. And then a cascade of life-altering events has brought me back to writing again.

Last month, my sister-in-law, Linda, and I were scheduled to go back to our hometown of Cincinnati to visit her 91-year-old mom, Bobbie, and my “adopted” parents, Pat and Norbert. A week before our trip, Linda’s mom fell, broke her hip, and ended up in the intensive care unit on life support, following surgery. Bobbie died five days later, when it was determined that she couldn’t survive off the ventilator. I saw her death as a merciful blessing, and in sharp contrast to my mom who was on critical care for the last nine months of her life.

Just as Linda began the process of tending to her mom’s affairs and planning her funeral, Norbert suddenly ended up in the hospital with a slew of problems. I saw him the day I left Cincinnati following Bobbie’s services. He didn’t look good, but I had hopes that he’d be well enough soon to go to a rehab facility which would enable him to return home with Pat. (As of today’s writing, Norbert is indeed out of the hospital and in a rehabilitation facility.)

Both Norbert and Bobbie have been teetering on their ability to live independently at home. One of the purposes of the trip with Linda was to have some honest conversations with her mom about her living situation. The concerns were taken out of Linda’s hands with her mother’s death.

Meanwhile, back at home, we’d been nursing our very sick cat, Milo. He became suddenly ill about the time that Bobbie ended up in the hospital. After an extensive visit to the vet, we were faced with the decision of euthanizing Milo or bringing him home with supportive and comforting medicines, essentially kitty hospice. We opted for the latter, especially because he had been so “normal” days earlier, and we couldn’t stand the thought of saying goodbye to Hannah’s cat, her last living pet.

When I left for the funeral in Cincinnati, I said goodbye to Milo, believing that I’d never see him again. A week later, he began slowly recovering from whatever was ailing him. I started calling him the Hanukkah cat, as he looked like he would only live a day, and has now lived past two weeks. And then he became known as the Christmas miracle. Whatever’s going on with Milo, I’m grateful for this bonus time with him and relieved he doesn’t appear to be suffering.

In more bad news, we just learned that a friend was recently diagnosed with a terminal brain tumor. Hesitating to tell us, given our history with Hannah, we were soon brought into their nightmarish, unknown future.

In the midst of such sadness, people have stepped up with so much kindness. In Cincinnati, Linda’s longtime friends opened their homes and their hearts with such generosity – places to stay, cars to drive, food and drink to nourish our souls, live music to lift our spirits, endless hugs and laughter. Gratitude going hand in hand with grief.

Back home, caring vets continued to check in on Milo, offering whatever supportive care that was available. From the start, I didn’t hesitate to tell the treatment provider about our special bond with her pet. I’m sure they would extend the same care to everyone, but it’s been important to me that they know of Milo’s connection to Hannah.

And a few days ago, in some miraculous twist of fate, it appears Milo is going to live! We took him back to the vet for follow up bloodwork and an exam. He had gained a fair amount of weight and his bloodwork was essentially normal, other than some hyperthyroidism which is treatable. The underlying diagnosis was presumed to be cancer, but today, the vet reported that his results could be evidence of a miracle!

I’m so relieved and so astonished that Milo’s taken this turn, giving us more time with him. All that I can think is: Hannah decided she could wait a while longer for him; She heard our pleas of, “Not Yet!”; and Thank God we didn’t opt to euthanize him three weeks ago when he was deathly ill!

Once again, the above events have made me acutely aware of the fragility of life. So much is out of our control, out of our ability to see what’s coming. All we can do is embrace the present and be thankful for the beloved people and pets in our lives.

And I’m reminded me of the importance of showing up for people, and not just when there’s a crisis. Make the coffee date, take the walk, get on the plane, visit those in need, help friends when you’re the stronger one, send the thank you note, pick up the phone, make the hot dish, open the good wine, give the hug, say, “I love you”, celebrate the miracles, big and small.

As the new year begins, none of us know how long we have.

Grief Group

“Every great loss demands that we choose life again. We need to grieve in order to do this. The pain we have not grieved over will always stand between us and life… Grieving allows us to heal, to remember with love rather than pain. It is a sorting process. One by one you let go of the things that are gone and you mourn for them. One by one you take hold of the things that have become a part of who you are and build again.” — Rachel Naomi Remen, M.D.

For the past two months, it was a privilege for me to sit in on the Bloedel Grief Group, which has been co-led by my friend, Robin Gaphni and retired psychiatrist, Dr. Ted Rynearson. After four years of running the program, Robin and Ted are training me and two other facilitators from IVC’s Compassionate Companions program as there is a great need to expand the group. Currently, this eight-week program is offered three times a year, but there is a waiting list of grieving individuals who hope to enroll in the group. The need for grief support is great.

Based on Ted’s decades-long work with grief, the program uses a restorative model. During the structured eight weeks, the members follow an agenda of grief education, retelling stories of the deceased and the individual’s relationship with them, coping strategies, support systems, and a positive focus on the individual’s future goals and life purpose. This approach disregards the classic stages of grief, typically described by Kubler-Ross, which may appear simultaneously or in no logical order. Rather, this group highlights these two aspects: 1) Who the individual was before the death; 2) Who the individual is now. While there is an assumption that there is no cure for grief, the program strongly emphasizes the resiliency of the individual.

I especially appreciated another unique aspect of the program. Ted places an emphasis on reestablishing a relationship with the deceased, despite their absence. He calls it “presence in absence.” As I wrote about in A Soul Lives On, one of my main coping strategies has been discovering Hannah’s presence after her death. Messages come from those who have died in a number of ways - dreams, signs in nature, letters to and from the beloved, or other more direct communications. Despite the variety of religious beliefs represented in the group I observed, there was an overall acceptance of trying to maintain a relationship with the person who is no longer present on earth.

Not only is this group a valuable resource for those in grief, but it takes place in a beautiful, healing setting – Bloedel’s Japanese Teahouse. With windows and skylights looking out to nature, comfortable furniture, and an offering of tea and chocolates, members found themselves relaxing into the space. After the first week or two of anxiety and some fear around sharing one’s deepest pain and hardest memories with mostly strangers, the group that I witnessed quickly became a cohesive unit. By the final week of the group, members encouraged the tears and the tissue box was readily passed. Vulnerability was an essential element of the program, which was difficult at first for some. But the rewards of receiving comfort and understanding from the other group members seemed invaluable.

When I first asked Robin what the purpose of the grief group was, she responded, “To hold space.” Holding space means creating a trusting, safe, nonjudgmental, and empathetic environment where individuals feel free to share their innermost thoughts and feelings. In this space the leaders’ thoughts, feelings, and memories very much take a back seat to the person who is grieving. I observed the individual members gradually support one another within the container of the group or its activities with less and less intervention needed by the leaders. By week eight, the group practically ran itself while the leaders sat and listened. This group of eight strangers forged an intimate, healing circle.

Twelve and a half years since Hannah died, I began this group well down the road in my own grief. So, I was surprised that some of the members heart-wrenching stories affected me as much as they did. I cried through many of the commemorations of the living loved ones and the narratives of their dying. These stories were told through pictures, videos, song and meaningful objects. Inevitably, I was brought to tears during a showing of photos when they were accompanied by music, a weakness of mine.

Much like a memorial or celebration of life where a person’s gifts and strengths are spoken about, these restorative retellings of the lives of their loved ones made me consider the life I am leading. Am I living a meaningful life? Does it have purpose and connection? Am I using my God-given talents to their fullest?

Certainly grief work is part of my purpose. I am honored to be invited to facilitate the grief groups at Bloedel, especially with co-leaders whom I admire and love so much. This “free” support service is surely a gift to our community. And not just for Bainbridge Island, but folks come from the entire Puget Sound region to participate. It’s a testament to the great need for grief support, as well as to the program that Ted and Robin have created.

Connections

Yesterday I sat in on the annual candlelight memorial for those lost on Alaskan Flight 261 in 2000. Since the pandemic, the ceremony has been held via zoom, but it is no less impactful. A candle is lit for each of the 88 souls who died that day, while their names are said aloud. At the end of the reciting of passengers, folks attending may say the name of their lost loved one. I always say Hannah’s name. And I cry every time. The candlelighting is a somber and rich offering to those who were lost, as well as to those who were left behind. It is deeply moving to hear the echo of the names said aloud. The organizer of the ceremony, Claire, says, “as you light this candle shared all over the world with people who are grieving, I hope you know you are not alone.”

We are not alone.

Today is my friend, Mary Jane’s, birthday. MJ also lost her daughter, Jenny, to brain cancer. Jenny was MJ’s only child, and sadly, her daughter’s diagnosis of DIPG was a death sentence from the outset. Hannah at least had a fighting chance with her cancer, but in the end, both girls’ lives were cut far too short. Jenny and Hannah shared something else: the same birthday, August 1st. Today, on MJ’s special day, is the girls’ half-birthday. Mary Jane and I are forever connected as bereaved moms, while our daughters are bonded as birthday twins with the same tragic ending.

Mary Jane and I are not alone.

I believe magical connections between people are the soul bonds that make life meaningful. Mary Jane and I wish we’d never had to meet. But thank goodness we did. Thank goodness I’m connected to my other friends who have lost children, without whom I wouldn’t know how to step forward in my life without Hannah. These women are some of my deepest friendships, as we’ve survived the most profound loss and found ways to keep going. We’ve supported each other in finding new purpose, new work, and new creations.

My bereaved friends and I are not alone.

One of those friends, Robin, has helped to provide me with meaningful work. She invited me to become a caregiver in IVC’s compassionate companion’s program which offers one-on-one support to grieving individuals. After doing that work for years, Robin asked me to help facilitate the grief groups that she does with a retired psychiatrist, Ted, who has specialized in this work for decades. I recently discovered my special connection with Ted.

Back in the 1970’s, Ted’s wife was working with another woman, Dorothy, to establish a Montessori school on the island. Tragically, Ted’s wife committed suicide before that school was underway. But Dorothy completed their mission, creating Montessori Country School. I wouldn’t have known of a connection with Ted were it not for our longtime family friends, Carolyn and Tom, who put two and two together. Dorothy was Carolyn’s mom. All three of our kids attended MCS, during their preschool years. I credit that school with helping to teach our children to be avid learners and thoughtful, caring humans. Two of our closest friends have a link to Ted with whom I am now working to support people who have lost a loved one.

We are not alone.

I enjoy finding and making connections of all kinds. On a lighter note, I’ve recently enjoyed meeting with friends with related dogs. I wrote earlier about how our puppy, Beans, came to be, thanks to Robin’s referral. Beans is thriving and growing, along with her siblings, Bumble and George, the pups of friends Barb and Stefanie. Beans is also a distant sibling of Robin’s dog, Gus. At Thanksgiving, Beans’s mom gave birth to an “accidental” litter of eight puppies. Eager to help find new families for these puppies, I began reaching out to friends whom I thought might be interested in bringing home a lab puppy. As it turned out, the son and daughter-in-law of my friend “Isabel” just brought home a yellow female this week from that litter! (Isabel was the friend in my book who saw Hannah at the Seattle University Law Library.) The daughter-in-law also happens to be a good friend of Robin’s daughter! I can’t wait to have a multi-generational dog reunion of these labs in Robin’s backyard! Connections abound that I couldn’t have scripted myself!

We are not alone.

In other happy news, we are the proud grandparents of a new granddaughter! Alexis delivered her baby girl, Genevieve, two weeks ago. Genevieve was also the name of my friend Stefanie’s best friend in high school. Sadly, Stefanie’s Gen died of leukemia when she was twenty years old. Recently, Gen’s dad passed away rather suddenly. Bill had been meeting with this dad, Bruce, for monthly lunches, both finding connection and support over the loss of their daughters. The first thing many of us thought after Bruce died was that Gen and her dad were now together; a parent and child reunion that many of us long for. It somehow seems fitting that a new Genevieve has appeared on this earth just as an old one reunites with her father on the other side of the veil.

They are not alone.

I love to connect people with people. Matchmaking, filling a need, finding a person to complete a team, a mission, a job. It’s a big part of this earth school–reaching out to others to teach, to inspire, to heal, to nurture, to soothe, to grow, to hold. We all takes turns leading and guiding each other to the right place on our path, whether or not we know it at the time. Connection with others gives my life meaning and healing and gratitude. And I believe Hannah is helping to make some of those connections.

I am not alone.

p.s. Pictured here is my mom’s best friend, Pat, holding her brand new great grandson. Pat also lost her adult son to a sudden illness several years ago. Now a bereaved mom, Pat and I share a stronger connection that neither of us would have expected.

Letting Go

Sunset at the community dock in Port Madison

On August 30, 2022, Hannah has been gone from this earthly plane for twelve years. She had also just turned twelve years old when she died. She’s been gone as long as she lived.

Lately, I’ve been pretty angry that she’s not still on this earth. I miss her female company, her confidences, and her allegiance to me. I miss her positivity and high energy. I miss her planning, her busyness, and her activities. I miss seeing her with friends. I miss her at the dinner table or on any special occasion. I miss watching what she would have become. I miss Hannah so much.

And my anger that Hannah’s gone has spilled over into my relationships with the people whom I’m closest to. I’m angry that her brothers and friends and cousins get to grow up and live the lives they choose. Many are busy pursuing higher degrees, starting careers, traveling, getting married, having children; all things Hannah will never know. It’s not their fault that my daughter will never get to realize these things. Regardless, my fuse is short, I’m quickly irritable, and I tend to see the worst in others, particularly my family. I especially get upset when I perceive a lack of communication or consideration, a lack of effort, or a lack of trying to meet up to a potential with their work, self-care, or relationships. The last potential Hannah tried to live up to was beating cancer as a twelve-year-old. She barely had a fighting chance. I lay awake at night and count everyone’s faults, including my own. It’s not a happy place to be.

I don’t need a psychoanalyst to tell me that underneath all of that anger is sadness. When Hannah died twelve years ago on a warm August afternoon, I’d never felt so sad and heartbroken in my life. I’ve recovered from some of that deep grief, but periodically it creeps into my awareness in the form of crocodile tears or flaming madness. Hannah wouldn’t want me to live in this mindset. I can just see her rolling her eyes at me, “C’mon Mom, get over it!!” Sorry honey, but I’ll never get over wishing you were still here.

I may also be sad and angry because we just let go of the last earthly piece of her, her ashes. We have not been able to release her ashes since they were returned to us from the funeral home. They have sat in a biodegradable box in my dresser ever since we brought her home from Cooks. The thought of scattering her ashes has been unbearable. Until now.

As I wrote about in A Soul Lives On, we didn’t know until after Hannah passed that she wanted to have her ashes scattered in Puget Sound. She shared that wish with her friend, Courtney, just months before she was diagnosed with brain cancer. At this point it seems selfish or weird or even hypocritical to hold onto them and not honor her wishes. I have spent years and many pages sharing with the world that Hannah is still alive in spirit. So why does letting go of her ashes feel like a monumentally emotional task? No wonder I’ve been on the edge of erupting daily.

And before we let them go, we wondered if we should hold some of them back? Bill wants to keep a small portion of the ashes to take with us on a special trip somewhere. He reminded me that Hannah liked to say, “Live life!” Bill wants to take a small earthly part of her to some magical place to honor that wish. I don’t know where or when that may be, but we kept a piece of Hannah for that journey. Perhaps as we scatter her ashes and finally let her go, she is happy that we are choosing to live our own lives and not stopping ourselves from living under the cloud of grief.

Tuesday on the anniversary of her death, we gathered to release her ashes in Port Madison Bay. Bill and I were joined by Ryan, Andrew, Adam & Alexis, and my sister-in-law, Linda. Following a dinner of Hannah’s favorite chicken enchiladas, we walked down to the beach after sunset. I’d been following the tide tables, wanting to set her ashes in the water on an outgoing tide. A beautiful crescent moon hung in the sky as we gathered on the community dock. Bill and I said a few words, and then I placed the paper box in the water. We watched as an otter or seal, hard to tell which with the fading light, approached the dock. The box floated back to us, so I reached out, leveled the ashes, and set it back in the water. Shortly thereafter, it sunk. At first, I was worried that the marine animal had gotten to it, but Ryan assured me that was not the case. He said he heard the water fill the box as it descended. We cried and hugged and said goodbye to Hannah.

Back at the house, we lit an outdoor fire in our patio pit and waited for it to burn down to make s’mores, one of Hannah’s favorite treats. With our kids growing up in Pt Madison, I remembered many a night with Hannah’s big sister, Alli, and her family, having beach fires and roasting s’mores on this bay.

I hope Hannah is smiling that we’ve finally released her. After falling quickly asleep Tuesday night, I woke after midnight and couldn’t fall back to sleep until dawn. My body was restless, my legs were cramping, and my mind wouldn’t shut down. Maybe my own body, that had given birth to Hannah some twenty-four years ago, struggled to let the remains of her go. I don’t regret spreading her ashes in the Sound, but it may take some time before I’m at peace with it.

The next morning, I walked back down to the beach to make sure the tide had taken Hannah’s ashes. I walked all around the dock and along the beach, a bit anxious that the box had gotten snagged on a piling or a log, instead of disintegrating in the salty water. It was nowhere to be found. It reminded me of the days after she died when I walked for miles in the forest looking for her. Back then, it seemed too unbelievable that she had died. It still feels that way.

12/12

Sunflower painting is a gift from my friend, Bobbi Endter

As Hannah would have turned 24 years old today, she has been gone from this earth nearly as long as she lived. When she turned 12 on August 1, 2010, she had one foot already out the door. Consumed with pain, delirium, and mood swings, Hannah was hardly in a state of mind to celebrate her birthday, a day that used to mean so much to her. By the time of her birthday, and mine nine days later, I was praying for her release. Hannah would leave this plane of existence on August 30. Is it any wonder that I despise the month of August?

I didn’t used to hate August, but sharing a birthday with my mom was not always the easiest experience. As a Leo, I wanted the spotlight, and I didn’t want to share it. But Mom loved having the same birthday, and did whatever she could to honor the day.

Mom would have turned 96 years old this month. It’s hard for me to imagine that she has been gone for 25 years. Her final gift to me was planting the seed of Hannah in my heart, the most generous thing she ever gave me. Consciously, I don’t think Mom was aware that I had begun to dream of a daughter because of her medical nightmare. But once she had died, she knew.

The pain of losing Mom and Hannah is much less than it was in the past. Somedays, unbelievably, I even forget that I had/have a daughter. How is that even possible? Is it because so much time has passed? The proverbial “out of sight, out of mind” is a possible reason, along with the many challenging distractions that my life keeps throwing in my path. Twelve years ago, I never would have believed that Hannah wouldn’t be a constant thought, back when I didn’t know how to live without her.

These days, Hannah still reminds me to remember her, that she’s around. This summer when I was in Montana for one of her best friend’s weddings, I ventured further to meet up with my friend, Greg, on his cross-country run. The last night I was there, we were treated to a huge double rainbow at sunset. Whenever I see a rainbow, I believe it’s Hannah reminding me that she’s never truly gone from my presence. Instantly I knew that that double rainbow was Hannah blessing me and blessing Greg on his run. Sadly these days when I get one of her signs, I beat myself up with guilt that she’s reaching out to me more than I am to her, even though I know she wouldn’t want me to feel that way.

When Hannah died, I made a conscious daily effort to connect with her. Quiet walks in the woods and meditation were two things I tried, but I was usually left with an aching, empty feeling. Back then, I was distraught with losing her, and desperately wanted to bring her back to life, in some form. Why has that faded? Am I more comfortable with her absence? Have other people and other activities moved in to take my attention?

If I could wave a magic wand, I’d do about anything to have her back, healthy and vital.

Picturing Hannah as a whole and well person, as I believe her to be in spirit, I think of her in these scenarios and miss her the most:

I miss Hannah when I’m…watching the mother of the bride helping her daughter dress for her wedding…holding my 12-week-old sleeping puppy on my chest and wishing Hannah could share in the love…seeing school-age girls do arts and crafts at my kitchen table…crossing a finish line at a run with Hannah there to greet me…watching a sappy movie musical that we both would have loved…making and decorating a birthday cake…receiving breakfast in bed on my birthday from Hannah, complete with handmade birthday gifts and a handwritten card, full of her love and devotion.

I miss her sweet smile, her ferocious hugs, her whispered confidences, her goofy sense of humor, her strength and stubbornness, her beyond-her-years wisdom, her companionship. On the occasion of her 24th birthday, I miss my daughter, and all that she could have become.

Life these days feels precious and fragile and full and empty and longing.

Full of Beans

We just brought home an eight-week-old chocolate lab named Beans. I am already so in love! She has a short silky coat, gorgeous blue eyes, and soft kissable ears. When we lost our old dog, Moose, two months ago, I couldn’t imagine bringing a new dog into the family so soon. But Moose’s leaving left a hole in our hearts and in Bear’s, our golden. Normally, I wouldn’t have been so quick to look for another dog, but then the universe intervened.

Right after Moose died, I was meeting with my “group of dead kids” moms— Robin, Stefanie, and Teri— as we regularly do, to catch up and lend support. Robin told me that the mom and dad to her two-year-old black lab, Gus, were due to have another litter. My ears perked up, and so did Stefanie’s. It wasn’t long before I had convinced Bill that 1) yes, we could bring home a new puppy; 2) chances are that we would outlive this dog; 3) Bear needed a companion; 4) it would bring more joy into our lives; and 5) I wanted one!

Bill said okay with the stipulation that the puppy be a black lab, reminiscent of his first dog, Jet. Our old black lab mix, Buddy, had also been the best dog in the world, so I could see adopting another one. Although, my concern was less about the color and more about how the puppy responded to us. The breeder agreed. When Bill, Ryan, Andrew and I met the litter four weeks ago, we came upon eight adorable pups: 4 yellow, 2 black, and 2 chocolate labs. How could we possibly choose? I knelt down to greet them and the first one to approach was a chocolate female who began kissing and biting my fingers. She was also the only puppy who nuzzled my neck and let me hold her for anytime. We returned two weeks later for another visit and confirmed that this chocolate girl was the one. In the meantime, Stefanie had chosen a yellow male, and my friend Barb picked the black female that had initially caught Bill’s eye. Three puppies would grow up knowing and playing with each other!

In addition to another close friend having one of Beans’s siblings, I was struck by how my bereaved friends had been instrumental in bringing dogs into our lives. At the time Robin adopted Gus, Teri orchestrated another puppy adoption for Stefanie from a family member. And now Stefanie wanted a companion for her two-year-old dog. Who knew that grief could literally be a breeding ground for new life?

Two weeks ago, I discovered a deeper connection among all these dogs. When Bill and I visited the puppies to make our final choice, the breeder shared a very personal story. She told us that she had lost a baby boy last year after a preterm birth, explaining why the dogs hadn’t had a litter in two years. That child was delivered four months early, just as Stefanie had prematurely delivered her baby girl Carey, whom she lost fourteen years ago. The other special thing about Beans and her siblings is that they were born on her baby boy’s original due date, May 2. When I told Stefanie what we learned, she was then able to share her story with the breeder, giving the woman time to talk about her devastating loss.

Serendipity, with a little bit of enchantment and good faith, brought Beans into our lives. Maybe our children in heaven played a part. However the magic occurred, these pups have brought a lot more joy into our lives and a lot less sleep!

Gratitude

I am profoundly grateful for receiving the Silver Nautilus Book Award for A Soul Lives On.

When my editor, Beth Wright, encouraged me to apply for a number of book awards, I was frankly surprised. I thought my book was good, but I wasn’t sure it was THAT good. Her encouragement to me to reach out to various recognitions was affirming and gratifying. The Nautilus Book Award was the only one I recognized, so I applied for that prestigious honor. Submitting my application shortly after my book launched last fall, felt like a long time ago. When the announcement of the winners came last month, I’d nearly forgotten about it.

In autumn 1998, shortly after Hannah’s birth, Nautilus Book Awards was born.

Here’s what I have learned about the Nautilus Award, from their website, https://nautilusbookawards.com:

(During the next several years), Nautilus grew steadily as a platform for both first-time and experienced authors and publishers to have their books recognized as seeds to help the world-shift that was necessary and indeed crucial to bring forth healing for life on Earth…To recognize and celebrate Better Books for a Better World, authors and publishers began taking more responsibility for their books as tangible and potent seeds of a potential world - a world that values significant steps in sustainable practices, that recognizes the integration of body, mind, & spirit, that celebrates streams of spiritual awakening from Eastern traditions, from Western traditions, and from Indigenous & other traditions; and that encourages positive social action for greater healing and justice in many aspects of our culture.

A Soul Lives On won in the category of Death & Dying/Grief & Loss. To read about the other recipients of the 2022 Nautilus Award, see: https://nautilusbookawards.com/nautilus-winners

Receiving this Nautilus award is certainly icing on the cake. Hopefully, the new recognition will help the book reach a larger audience. And with that, it may help someone else take those difficult steps in healing their grief.

I didn’t set out to write an award-winning book when I began this story. What started as a bunch of journal entries, became a depressing slog, as I was still under a dark cloud of grief. Putting the book away for years, I attempted to write a children’s book, showcasing Hannah’s astrological chart with my niece, Annie, and her illustrations. Those pages were fun and creative, but eventually they felt too heavy and sad for a kid’s book. With time and counsel and a lot of thought, the chapters of A Soul Lives On finally emerged. It wasn’t until Beth had me rewrite the whole book to tell a more personal, emotional story, that it took its current form. All I knew in my heart was that I wanted to share Hannah’s story, our story, and I hoped it would help someone else in deep grief from having lost their special person. Ultimately, the book felt like a part of my life’s work, and I couldn’t rest until it was finished.

As I write about in A Soul Lives On, connecting with other bereaved women became a lifesaver for me. One woman in particular, Molly, demonstrated to me that something creative and meaningful could be sparked from my grief. I’m over-joyed that my book creation became my spark. Molly had also survived for decades after the loss of her infant son. I was profoundly grateful that Molly and my other bereaved friends demonstrated that there could be life after the loss of a child.

Another friend of mine is turning struggle and loss into meaningful work. My friend, Greg Nance, an ultramarathon runner, is currently halfway across the country in his Run Across America. Greg has been open about his own struggles, following substance abuse brought on by depression and anxiety. Now with over ten years of sobriety, running has become Greg’s healing method, his mission, and his purpose. His current Run Across America isn’t just a personal challenge, but it’s coupled with his cause to raise funds and awareness for youth mental health via The Run Far Foundation; (https://www.runfarfoundation.com) Often running more than 50 miles a day, day after day, Greg is hobbling with full-body aches and pains after over 1,500 miles. But despite his agonies, he finds something every day to be grateful for: chirping birds, beautiful landscapes, inspiring and generous people, a bath at the end of the day… before he gets up the next morning and does it all over again.

Today, May 31st, is my son, Andrew’s birthday. He has known terrible loss, great trauma, and personal struggles. And yet, he is also a survivor. His purpose has yet to be revealed, but I’m so grateful that he’s gets up every day, faces his demons, and tries to carve a path forward. I am profoundly grateful for this sweet, smart, sensitive young man.

Andrew was certainly affected by Hannah’s death. Her passing was the worst thing I’ve ever experienced. And gradually, reflecting on my loss turned into A Soul Lives On, for which I am so grateful.

Gratitude can help you overcome the greatest loss. The greatest fear. The greatest obstacle. The hardest day.

Sweet Moose

Someday I’ll wish upon a star

Wake up where the clouds are far behind me

Where trouble melts like lemon drops

High above the chimney tops

That’s where you’ll find me

~ Somewhere over the rainbow

Another piece of my heart went to heaven on Friday. Moose, the dog that Hannah helped Andrew pick out 12 ½ years ago, passed away fairly suddenly. He was old for a big dog, but he was still fairly spry and active. We’d had some warning signs lately that his time was running out, but we weren’t expecting to do what we had to do a few days ago. After a pretty normal day for Moose – a short walk around the neighborhood, scarfing up his dog food and begging for pizza crusts, climbing our stairs to sleep next to our bed, as he always did – he woke up the next day short of breath. As Bill and I watched his breathing grow more rapid and his condition deteriorate, we made the difficult decision with Andrew to take him to the Winslow Clinic, where we knew he would probably be euthanized.

I thought I was prepared for what we had to do, but saying another goodbye to a member of the family hurt like hell. I was at least grateful that the vet, Dr. Lisa Barfield, could see immediately that Moose was dying, and that there was nothing that could be done to save him. She acted quickly to stop his suffering. After he was gone, Lisa examined him and could feel a large tumor in his belly. She speculated that Moose may have had a sudden, catastrophic bleed. It explained the quick onset of his difficulty breathing and inability to stand or walk. Knowing we did the right thing still didn’t ease my pain.

Moose had a special connection to Hannah. She had helped Andrew select him from a large litter of puppies at Countryman Stables, where he was born on August 30, 2009. Hannah had relapsed by then, and Kathy Countryman wanted to ensure that Andrew and Hannah would get the pick of the litter. My gentle giant, Andrew, chose the largest of the puppies, “Monster”, as he was first called. With a purebred Brittany Spaniel mother and a black Lab father, Moose looked mostly like a golden but didn’t have the temperament of one. He was hypersensitive, sometimes grouchy, and did not like to be cuddled or hugged. Still, he and our Golden Retriever, Bear, were good buddies. Today when we ask Bear if he’s ready to go for a walk, he looks around the house for Moose, his traveling companion.

Back in 2010, on the day that Moose turned one year old, Hannah died. As I described in my book, three days after her passing, Hannah visited my friend, “Isabel”, to express her concern for Moose and for her brother Andrew. She told Isabel that she wanted Andrew to take care of their dog. Now that Moose has gone, I feel her loss all over again. Much like when Hannah’s cat, Leia, died, I felt like I had lost my daughter once more. As Moose slipped into a peaceful sleep, I told him, “Go be with Hannah now.”

Three days later, my heart still hurts when I think of sweet Moose. But the pain is precious to me. I loved that loyal yet grouchy dog. He was a part of our family with a strong connection to Hannah. Missing him, I miss my daughter again. But I’m so grateful to have had them in my life.

Dr. Olson, the White House is calling!

HHH fundraising logo designed by my niece, Anne Ferguson

Last week, I had a virtual conversation with Dr. Jim Olson and Margo Fowkes, two of the most brilliant and caring individuals on the planet. As a part of my book launch, we addressed the heartaches and hopes in the pediatric cancer world, a place the three of us know all too well.

Jim is an oncologist at Seattle Children’s Hospital, a principal investigator at Seattle Children’s Research Institute, and a professor of pediatrics at the University of Washington. On a personal level, Jim was one of Hannah’s doctors, the lead researcher on her clinical trial, and the recipient of our Hannah’s Hopeful Hearts fundraising.

In addition to being the founder and president of OnTarget Consulting, Margo Fowkes created Salt Water, an online community that provides a safe harbor for those who are grieving the death of someone dear to them. Margo started Salt Water in 2014 after the death of her son, Jimmy, who died of the same brain tumor as Hannah.

I had been looking forward to this conversation for months. It was an amazing discussion until we were rudely interrupted by zoom trolls or “bots.” We managed to restart the talk with a new zoom meeting, but I was so disappointed that that had happened to us, and that we had lost some important listeners in the process. (I have since learned to not publicly share zoom links and passwords, but rather to invite people who would like to participate to receive a personal invitation from me with the log in information.) But as always, Dr. Olson carried on his informative talk that evening with grace and calm; me, not as well. Jim’s perfect comment to the security breach was: “It’s nothing compared to living through childhood cancer.” So true.

I had intended to share a recording of our conversation, but given what transpired, I decided to summarize Jim’s comments and answers that were too important to not be shared.

1) After 20 years at Fred Hutch, Jim has moved his research practice to Seattle Children’s Research Institute where the number of labs and scientists is growing dramatically. This growth greatly expands the progress and outlook for children diagnosed with cancer.

2) Originating in Jim’s lab, Tumor Paint – the magical scorpion-derived compound that lights up cancer cells so that surgeons can differentiate malignancy from healthy tissue - has been evaluated in approximately 200 patients in five human clinical trials. Data from the current “pivotal” clinical trial will be submitted to the FDA for an approval decision.  

3) Jim described innovative ideas being generated in his lab, including a “Tumor Glue” that could potentially bind cancer cells, making surgical excision easier and more thorough.

4) After 30 years as a pediatric oncologist, Jim recently concluded his clinical practice, soon to focus his attention on research, advisory, and “passing the torch” to up-and-coming physicians and scientists.

5) Jim beautifully explained how pediatric cancers are fundamentally different than adult cancers, hence the need for different studies. When asked about the disparity of federal dollars going to childhood cancer research vs adult cancer research, he explained that pediatric research is a relatively young field. He anticipates that the federal share of money will change with the tremendous growth in childhood cancer research. (I found this information to be new and very helpful.)

6) And in further good news, Jim has been tapped by President Biden to advise the White House Office of Science and Technology Policy on strategy that hopefully will reduce all cancer deaths by 50% in the next 25 years. (Jim told me that his initial phone call with them on Friday was “awesome!”)

With the onset of the pandemic, there has been a shift in fundraising for research. Two years ago, Jim began an Optimizer’s Club to keep concerned individuals informed of his lab’s work as well as to serve as a vehicle for regular giving. Families can give a monthly or annual donation, while receiving periodic updates from the lab.

If you are interested in becoming an Optimizer, go to this website: https://give.seattlechildrens.org/give/308469/#!/donation/checkout.
Because this donation site is not directly linked to the Optimizer’s club, the donor should also send an email to Jim’s assistant: Jason.leubner@seattlechildrens.org to ensure that they are included on the mailing list for future gifts. Thank you to my friends and family members who are already part of the Optimizer’s club!

Love, Reba

Heartache and Hope

It’s been a cold hard winter for many of us. Freezing temperatures, snow, ice, and relentless rain have pummeled the Northwest. The raging pandemic, which we had hoped would be winding down months ago, has led to many of us contending with sickness, isolation, or canceled travel and postponed plans. I, for one, was fortunate to have an in-person reading at Eagle Harbor Books back in November. Since then, many special events have been canceled as the Omicron wave continues to keep us at largely at home. As the sun creeps slowly northward and the Covid cases begin to go down, we can only hope for a return to a new normal.

This January is difficult for some for another reason. As I talked about Claire in my book – the woman who helped me create Hannah’s mosaic garden stones — today, she faces the anniversary of the loss of her daughters from the January 31st Alaskan Airlines crash. Each year, Claire and her friends hold a special candle lighting ceremony for the eighty-eight souls lost in that tragedy. And then every year, she melts down the candles from that night to create votives for the next year, which she sends out to loved ones who commemorate that day. This year, I was especially moved to receive her candle and the words that accompanied it:

  “To be loving is really all we can do and all that we must do. This has never been more true than it is now. Our whole world is suffering. We are scared, divided, angry and tired. As I sit down to write this letter I am overcome with a deep sense of exhaustion. We have been navigating too much for too long.

            Our lives were challenging even before this pandemic. And now, two years in and the darkness and sadness of January makes it hard to get up each morning. We are done in with fatigue. And then that old uncomfortable truth keeps presenting itself: even when we are done we have to keep going on.

            I am often asked, when people learn of the death of my daughters, ‘how do you keep going?’ The answer is both simple and profound…love. Love from and for my family, my friends, my daughters, my world. I follow routine, care for others, and just slowly and steadily try to show up with love to all the challenges that life presents. It is the only way forward that I know. To love, and to be loving, is the only path through this fatigue and pain. When I remember this, I find the strength I need…”

Such truth in Claire’s words – to love and be loved; to keep showing up in our lives for ourselves and each other. It’s really what it comes down to, especially in light of the fear and fatigue that surrounds us.

After my book launch in November, I had my own shut down. I was exhausted from the publication and release of my book, plus family responsibilities diverted my focus elsewhere. It’s been hard to pick myself up again and continue to share what’s in my heart. But I’m happy to announce that I’m finally having the online conversation with Dr. Jim Olson and Margo Fowkes this week. I couldn’t not. I wrote the book in part to share the horrors and the needs of the pediatric cancer world. Some of the proceeds of the book will go to support Jim’s research so that the experience and the outcomes for other children and other families will be different than ours. I love these two humans. I’m certain our talk will be informative and inspiring.

I invite you to tune in this Thursday, February 3rd at 5:30. Jim will share his latest news as an oncologist at Seattle Children’s Hospital and a principal researcher at Seattle Children’s Research Institute. (Jim recently moved his lab from the Fred Hutch.) My friend, Margo, is a fellow bereaved cancer mom and the creator of the grief website, Salt Water. Here is the zoom link to join the conversation:

https://us02web.zoom.us/j/85980927015?pwd=cmpsM1RHd2wxRVJZNVNqbXBPMWVUUT09

Meeting ID: 859 8092 7015
Passcode: 171306

XO, Reba

Solstice

The shortest days and the longest, darkest nights. It’s felt especially dark this year. I’m not sure if I’m missing Hannah more now because the book dredged up vivid memories of her and brought her back to life. But I do know that I’ve always missed Hannah the most at Christmastime.

It was her favorite holiday season. Of course the boys love Christmas too, but Hannah, especially, dove into it with everything she had. I’ll always remember her…making gifts for her friends and family, painting pottery at Dancing Brush, putting up the manger scene in our house, baking Christmas cookies, decorating the tree, making a wreath with me at Bainbridge Gardens, caroling at the tree lighting in Winslow, getting dressed up and attending performances of the Nutcracker in Poulsbo where her big sister, Alli, danced… counting down to Christmas on the advent calendar.

After Hannah died, it was excruciating to return to some of these activities. The year that she passed, we had to leave town, mercifully escaping to Hawaii for the Christmas holiday. The following year, I dared to venture into some of the old advent activities. I don’t remember a lot about that second Christmas, other than finally having the nerve to put up a tree. I do recall painting ceramics at Dancing Brush that year. While I was there working by myself, a group of elementary school kids came in and started singing Christmas carols. Initially, I cringed and felt trapped in the studio, but since I was the only one painting that weekday morning, I couldn’t very well leave the shop. I took a deep breath and tried to enjoy the experience, gradually coming to feel like it was Hannah gifting me the music for my second Christmas without her. I returned to making wreaths at Bainbridge Gardens the following year, a tradition I’ve kept up for over twenty years. Now I prefer to work alone in the chilly covered greenhouse, mostly because Hannah will never share that with me again. And some activities may never be resurrected. I have yet to pull the manger from the bin in our basement and set it up. Some memories are just too painful.

I’ve always loved creating advent activities that our kids would remember when they got older. Whether it was constructing a gingerbread house, making ornaments, or playing a new game, I’ve gotten a lot of pleasure out of the buildup and anticipation to Christmas, as much as the day itself.

It’s probably why I’m carrying on that tradition with our grandchildren. For the past several years, since Adam and Alexis’s children have lived on the island, I’ve created twenty-four days of activities and gifts for them. With waiting for their kids to be vaccinated and for the pandemic to pass, I haven’t been able to be with them in person as much as I would have liked. But I hope that they feel a connection to me and to each other through the joy of the activities.

Hannah would have loved playing with her niece and nephews. I imagine when they’re putting together a puzzle, baking cookies, or playing Harry Potter’s “Wizard’s Chess”, Hannah is right there with them smiling and laughing. She would have made a great Aunt Hannah if she were still in the physical world. I wish she were still with me to help create these activities and these memories with our grandkids. And I’d like to think it will be one of their more meaningful, joyful memories of Christmas.

I cherish the time I have now with my family and friends whom I love most in the world, knowing too well it won’t last forever.

On another note, I’m so grateful to those of you who have shared with me how A Soul Lives On has touched your heart. I hope the book brings comfort and light to anyone who may be struggling with missing someone this holiday.

With love…

A Soul Lives On is born!

It’s a surreal feeling to hold this book in my hands that’s been in the making for years. As I prepare to launch the book out into the world, it feels like I’m about to give birth. I’m nervous, excited, scared, sleepless. And sad. The time that I’ve spent with this book and with Hannah is coming to an end. I know that it’s just another chapter in our souls’ ongoing stories, but a part of me feels like I’m about to say goodbye again.

I’m also realizing that I’m not putting something impersonal out into the public. Duh. The book is honest, raw, horrific at times, but also hopeful. My whole heart and my love for Hannah is wrapped up in this story. For a while now, I’ve been occupied with the intellectual work and effort that’s required to produce a published memoir. Well, my emotions have finally caught up with me, and I’ve been a mess all week.

I know that’s not surprising for some. And I know I’ll be tremendously supported by my friends and family in upcoming events. Send up a prayer or some good thoughts for my tender heart as I prepare to offer the scheduled readings.

Here’s what’s coming up:

November 5 – Open Mic (Zoom) Meeting for Caregivers at Grace Church;  4-5 pm

Zoom Link: https://zoom.us/j/93775254431?pwd=TzRaNWxCTHB4a0twMVBTVW02Rmp2Zz09

Meeting ID: 937 7525 4431 Passcode: 2015394

*November 11 (Publication day!) – Eagle Harbor Bookstore, 6:30-8 pm; please sign up at the bookstore to reserve a seat, as the reading will be limited to 40 guests.

November 18 – Virtual conversation about the realities and hopes in the pediatric cancer world with Dr. Jim Olson, Margo Fowkes (bereaved mom and founder of the grief website, Salt Water), and myself; 5:30-6:30 pm.

Zoom Link: https://us02web.zoom.us/j/3833537274?pwd=cHJhRDVXcTYrRDFVTVUza0F2RHBvUT09

Meeting ID: 383 353 7274   Passcode: 080198

In the last week, a couple friends have reminded me that Hannah is walking beside me through this book launch. I know that she is, and I’m grateful. And I know we’re not alone.

*The book will be released on the publication date, November 11. You may pre-order at your local bookstore, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or the online seller, bookshop.org, which gives a percentage to independent bookstores.

Leaning In

I do not make a good patient. I prefer to be a caregiver, not a care receiver. I’ve had tons of experience in the care giving role as I’ve been an occupational therapist, a mom to a daughter with brain cancer, a mom to my boys, an IVC volunteer, and a compassionate companion to those in grief, just to name my big roles. Part of my experience has to do with the fact that I’ve been strong and healthy most of my life, while many people close to me have not. I’ve learned how to assist people who are weaker, to foster their independence, and to do what I can to help out in a difficult situation. I like showing up. I suppose I’m not alone in preferring to give, rather than receive. But when the roles are reversed, I don’t like it.

I don’t like it when people have to show up for me. I’ve needed folks to emotionally support me such as when Hannah died or when we’ve been in a crisis. But a couple weeks ago I was reminded what it’s like to be in a vulnerable situation. I was in Seattle at the Skin Surgery Center having a cancerous spot removed from my forehead. (Nothing lethal, but a necessary procedure.) I guess for the rest of my life I’ll be on skin watch for other suspicious spots; (thank you Irish/Scottish heritage and too much suntanning with baby oil when I was younger!)

I didn’t need anyone’s help to go to the outpatient center, but after a few hours, I started to question my decision. Bill had offered to drive me there, but of course I said, “No thanks. I’ll walk up the hill and back down to the ferry. No problem. They’re only using a local anesthetic.” The procedure itself was a surprise. Removing the basal cell carcinoma and waiting for the immediate results to make sure the surgeon got it all was no big deal, but getting stitches was something else. It wasn’t about the physical pain, for which I have a very good tolerance, but rather the emotional. I had been wearing a t-shirt and jeans during the excision in an exam room, but when it came time to stitch me up, I had to gown up and be escorted into what looked like an operating room. All of the sterile treatment and prep sent me down an anxious and sad path, recalling all that Hannah had endured. Lying on the table for thirty minutes, thoughts of her being bolted to the table under a mask for radiation, while being left alone in a dark treatment room brought back all kinds of traumatic memories. It’s still unimaginable to me what she had to endure. And still, she did not survive. I was her primary emotional and physical support during her nearly three years of treatment. I couldn’t take the physical pain away from her, but I could hold her heart.

I’m still learning to let others hold my heart. I’m not very good at asking for help. And since I can usually endure whatever physical challenge comes my way, I forget to think about the emotional toll involved. I know from studying my astrological birth chart, that I have a soul need to let others in, to ask for help, and to not carry the burdens alone. In a small excerpt from my book, during a reading with astrologer Steve Forrest, we said:

My karmic story involved being burdened by duties and responsibilities with the underlying feeling of I can handle anything. Nothing can break me. They’ll never see me cry. Steve said, “You needed to be broken. Let me speculate that losing Hannah was more than you could handle. But you’re still here. How come you’re still here? How’d you get through that? With a little help from your friends.”

I thank God every day for the friends in my life and for the people who show up, whether or not I’ve asked them to. It’s actually a good feeling to know people have your back. I need to keep leaning on them, as I’ve encouraged others to lean on me. Being vulnerable isn’t always such a bad thing. But it does take courage. Courage to overcome your fears. Fear of embarrassment, fear of shame, fear of weakness, fear of misunderstanding, fear of acceptance. It seems to me that fear is the great separator. By being afraid to reach out or lean in, we separate ourselves from the people whom we love and who love us.

Stay tuned to see how vulnerable I can really be when my book, A Soul Lives On, is published November, 2021!

Walking Lessons

 Today, we recognize that it has been eleven years since Hannah died. The pain today is far less acute than it was then—back when I didn’t know if I would survive her death. But I will always miss her. I will always wonder what she would be like and who she would have become if she had survived. I tend to think more about how she would have grown if she never had brain cancer, because it robbed her of so much that made her Hannah. I picture a tall, slim young woman with long blonde hair; probably a similar resemblance to her cousin, Caroline. She’d still have a pack of friends and maybe a boyfriend or a girlfriend (who knows?!) At twenty-three years old, she probably would have graduated college by now, in what field, I have no idea. Her childhood dreams ranged from being a singer or dancer to being a pediatric oncologist, (once she had cancer.) I’d hope she would live nearby, as it was my dream that we would be close, and that she would take care of me in my old age! Caroline told me recently that she would help take care of me when I’m older. I trust my boys will too. But I’m not an elderly person yet. I still have a lot of life in me. And hopefully, Bill and I have many years ahead of us.

After forty-two years in the real estate business on Bainbridge Island, Bill retired. He gave his life to that work. Sometimes joyfully, sometimes anxiously. But he always insisted on thoroughness, attention to detail, and excellent communication. Bill can be proud of the integrity he built in his career. He tells me over and over again that he is so grateful for being able to retire at this time in his life.

Bill has worked since he was twelve years old—pumping gas, doing yard work, helping in restaurant kitchens— and that was all before college. After high school, he went to Cal Poly in San Luis Obispo to study architecture. But before he finished, bills and a new baby on the way (Adam), led him to pursue work on Bainbridge. In 1979, he entered the real estate business and never looked back. Along the way, he engaged in some design and architecture work, including our two houses in Port Madison. He even went back to school to finish his architecture degree at the UW. But once again, the competing housing market and a second baby on the way (Ryan), precluded his finishing.

In 1996 when Ryan and Andrew were preschoolers, he was seriously challenged again. My mom had a medical catastrophe and ended up in intensive care in Cincinnati. I traveled back and forth to be with her for nearly a year, while Bill held down the home front with an increasingly busy real estate business and two young boys.

About ten years later when Bill’s mom needed help, we bought her a small house in Northern California where she and his dad had raised their boys. That was something we could do to support her when she became frailer and more aged, because we couldn’t visit very often.

In 2007, the same year that Bill’s mom died, Hannah was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Once again, he had to wear many hats. Although I was the primary care-taking parent with Hannah, Bill visited her or gave me a break at the hospital as much as he could, all the while, managing his work and making sure two teenage boys were okay at home. Credit also goes to his business partner, Mark Wilson, who took a bulk of the load when Bill and I needed to be with our daughter.

I am proud of the career that Bill has had. I’m also glad it’s over. Over the course of four plus decades in the business, Bill amassed a huge clientele and a great reputation. But you can’t do your job as well as he did without incurring a cost. After the kids and the parents and the real estate clients were take care of, there was little room for us.

It's our time now. As I talk about in my book, Bill and I have had very little time alone in the past few decades. In one chapter, I said:

With Hannah’s nightmare illness as a prime example, Bill and I learned that we are good in a crisis. We work well together. We know how to adapt, seek help, adjust our priorities, and share the load. We can be present for difficult conversations. Bill and I were with Hannah when she went in for neurosurgery, when her head was screwed to the table for radiation, when she heard the cancer was back, when she was airlifted, when we signed the DNR paper at Children’s, when she took her last breath. We make a good team when life is very, very hard.

But when the focus is just on us—when there isn’t an imminent emergency—we tend to retreat to our corners and wait for the next battle. Sometimes we can be too self-sufficient for our own good. With the cumulative stress, we’d also forgotten how to have fun together. We could lean on each other in the midst of a life-or-death situation, but ordinary life had become a challenge.

Bill and I have to learn to walk together again. I mean this both figuratively and literally. People who know me know that I love to walk. I love to walk alone or with my friends. Some days I feel like I could walk forever. But Bill and I don’t walk very well together. It frustrates me that he tends to walk a little ahead of me, seldom stepping into a rhythm with me, side by side. It’s especially frustrating because I love to walk fast! He’s the only one I know who does that and it drives me crazy. It drives him crazy when I call him on it. Mostly, I think he’s not even aware of it.

Currently, he’s using the excuse of being ahead of me because he’s trying to train our four-year-old dog, Bear, to heel. I appreciate his efforts, but honestly, walking quickly to try to keep up with a pulling golden retriever seems to defeat the training, in my opinion. At the same time, I looked forward to his retirement for the small reason that he could help me walk our big dogs, neither one of whom were trained as puppies because of one life crisis or another.

Since Bill left work two months ago, our walking has improved. I can’t expect things to change overnight! Mostly, I’m grateful that he has retired. Grateful that he made a nice nest egg to enable him to leave work. Grateful that we now have time together. Grateful that we can keep learning how to walk together, always believing that Hannah is walking with us. 

Who Am I

I am Hannah’s mom. Like most moms, I clearly remember the day she was born, twenty-three years ago today. I couldn’t wait to meet her. I agreed with my midwife to be induced on her due date, as I didn’t want to be late again and deliver a twelve-pound baby. After the births of my boys, that was the trajectory I was on with Hannah. We also didn’t want to have to race around the Sound in the middle of the night like we did when I was in labor with Andrew. We barely made it to the hospital before I delivered my ten-and-a-half-pound son. So, after walking miles around Seattle and getting maybe an hour of sleep in a hotel, we made it to the Capitol Hill Group Health in plenty of time for Hannah’s birth at dawn. Happy Birthday, sweet girl.

In her honor, I’m releasing this website, which has been a long time in the making! Here you will find information about my soon-to-be-published book, A Soul Lives On, my work as a practicing astrologer, and my current thoughts and activities. I am in much better shape than I was when Hannah passed away nearly eleven years ago. And I think she’s proud of me for what I’ve accomplished with my writing. I’ve certainly been changed by her death. Who I am and what I do is not the same as when Hannah was here.

Who am I? I am a wife, a mother, a grandmother, and a friend. I am a dog walker, a gardener, a baker, an occasional runner, a creative Leo, an event planner, a caregiver, and a whole lot more.

So, who do I think I am now that I can be a writer? Write a book? Write a blog?

I never considered myself a writer before. My education was in the health sciences, not English. I don’t know all the rules. I lack the grammar and the vocabulary of many authors. But fourteen years ago when Hannah got sick, I began to write in earnest. After she died, I found writing to be cathartic and healing, but I didn’t imagine that I would turn my writing into a book one day. I was too depressed, in too much grief, and too lost. I didn’t know who or what I was anymore. But writing has given me a purpose. It’s given me clarity. It’s given me hope. And for that, I am grateful.

Over the years, time has healed me, and now I have a story to tell. In addition to giving tribute to Hannah, I have been gifted with miraculous and merciful experiences that need to be told in the hopes that it helps someone else who is grieving.

In my first blog post on my first-ever website about my first book, I want to express my gratitude. I wouldn’t have a story to tell or love in my heart without Hannah. I have the love and support of my husband, Bill, and our boys, Ryan and Andrew. Our oldest son, Adam, and his wife, Alexis, have made me a grandma Reebie, which I cherish.

I am grateful for my sister, Linda, for gracing me with her wisdom, her loving presence, and her undying loyalty.

I am thankful for my brother, Claude, for being part of my original tribe, for literally running beside me, and for challenging me to take care of myself.

I have much love and appreciation for Alli Bannerman Beattie, who in those early years was the best big sister our kids could ever hope for, who didn’t leave Hannah’s side when she was dying, and who’s now a mom herself.

And of course, my deep gratitude for our faithful dogs and cats who have been part of the family over the years.

I am blessed to have the best friends in the world. I am grateful for my soul sisters whom I have known since we all had our children. These women taught me how to be a better mom and a better friend. I am grateful for the radically honest and understanding girlfriends in the “Shitty First Draft Writing Group” who have also lost children. I am grateful for the teachers, the counselors, and the mentors who have brought me out of the darkness. I am grateful for those women whom I have cared for since Hannah died, giving me a purpose and a new path.

I am graced to know the compassionate, brilliant human, Dr. Jim Olson. When his efforts to try to save Hannah were not possible, he supported Bill and me and gave us a cause to fight for.

I am so fortunate that my path crossed with Steve Forrest, wise astrological counselor and teacher. He supported me as Hannah was leaving her earthly body, and later helped me to understand why she came here in the first place.

I wouldn’t have known Steve were it not for Andrea Conlon, my first astrology teacher and counselor. She recognized that I had a gift for this ancient art, introduced me to a wealth of resources, and encouraged my writing.

And in that world, I’m grateful to author Jennifer Louden and the women at the Vermont writer’s retreat, for believing in me and giving me a safe space in which to explore my stories.

My book, A Soul Lives On, would not have seen the light of day were it not for the teaching and guidance of editors, Nancy Silk and Beth Wright. I am so grateful for their contributions to my writing and to this book.

And finally, the creation of this website would not have been possible without the patient and technical expertise of my son, Andrew. Gratitude doesn’t begin to describe my feelings towards him.

My friend and fellow bereaved mom, Robin, says that grief and gratitude go hand in hand. I am learning this is true. For all of you who have walked beside me, listened, taught, coached, inspired, laughed, cried, or loved me…thank you.