Sometimes I could feel his eyes on me. As cheesy as it sounds, it’s true. He would look at me like he was memorizing more than my face or features. It was like he was carving our life and each memory into his soul.
Steve loved me better than I’d ever known.
From the start of our story until his last breath, he made sure I knew.
I was seen
I was beautiful
I was worthy of love
When his breath grew raspy and labored, he still said, “You’re so beautiful” and “I love you.”
He always looked at me like this.
Something happens with trauma. The nervous system takes cherished words and emotions and marries them to bitterness and pain.
Glances feel unsafe
Smiles create doubt
Possibilities become frightening
The brain attaches the wrong sort of “what ifs” to innocent interactions. Instead of, “Huh. I remember this,” causing butterflies, it twists into, “I can’t go through it again.”
I could give in to fear. To doubt. Let it freeze my heart in a time when love meant more sacrifice than I could have imagined.
Or I can close my eyes, exhale, and allow good things to warm me.
Things like
Grace.
Patience.
Hope.
Then when I feel eyes on me. Someone smiling. Someone seeing me.
Our heroine is ready for work on time. A rare and glorious achievement.
All that remains is the simple task of walking the dogs. Simple.
Dogs leashed. Door opened. Rain. Not a polite drizzle. Not a gentle mist. No. The sky chose violence.
Now begins the delicate ballet of holding two leashes while attempting to open the coat closet and retrieve an umbrella from the top shelf, because apparently I believe in living dangerously before coffee.
At this moment the household divides.
Maggie (15-pound Chunkhuahua): Sees rain. Immediately aborts mission. Sprints back toward the living room — leash still firmly attached to my hand.
Phoebe (Her Highness of Welsh Corgihood): Bladder urgency has reached critical levels. She charges for the yard like a tiny four-legged torpedo.
Meanwhile I am stretching on tiptoe, grabbing the umbrella with my fingertips like a contestant in America’s Next Top Disaster.
Physics intervenes. The umbrella is acquired. My balance is not. I am pulled toward Maggie.
The front door slams. Phoebe is outside. Maggie is inside. I am standing in the doorway of my life choices.
So naturally I scoop up the 15-pound Chunkhuahua, juggle both dog and umbrella, reopen the door, and yell across the complex:
“PHOEBE!”
Phoebe pauses. Turns. Looks back at me.
The look says three things: 💠I heard you. 💠I acknowledge that you are yelling. 💠Biological processes outrank your panic.
She resumes her mission.
I chase after her, literally putting my best foot forward (on the flapping leash), finally open the umbrella, and the morning’s hydration event begins.
Some mornings build character. This one built a drinking habit. ☕️🌧️🐶
Dogs make water. Sky makes water. Mission accomplished.
We return inside where both dogs immediately present themselves for treat compensation for their bravery during the storm.
Treats are dispensed.
Maggie returns to Blanket Mountain, burrowing so completely that only the occasional nose or butt emerges from the fleece bunker.
Phoebe, concerned about the thunder, receives a hemp treat and then supervises the house like the dignified elder she is.
Before leaving for work, I straighten the pillows on my side of the bed and lay my sweatshirt in the spot.
Phoebe hops up. Circles. Settles in. And gives me the softest little look of gratitude. 🐶❤️
Which is how a morning that began with chaos, rain, leashes, and umbrella combat ends with something quieter:
A corgi on a pillow. My sweatshirt under her chin. And the comforting knowledge that when I come home tonight… Two dogs will be on the couch waiting for walks, dinner, and my presence.
Twas the night before Christmas, and with festive smiles, We drove to the mountains – all 100 miles. My gas tank was full. The dogs had been fed. “Join us in Blue Ridge,” my daughter had said.
“We rented a cabin — twill be so much fun!” Four dogs, three kids, and room for each one. So, trunk packed with presents and GPS ready, The dogs and I traveled along sure and steady.
We got to the cabin — what a delight! Why not expect everything to be right? My daughter looked frazzled searching her phone. “We need the door code,” she let out a moan.
Her husband called VRBO begging for help. The dogs were barking, and one let a yelp. The children — all hungry — started to whine. My bladder was screaming, “No, it’s not fine!”
Christmas Eve plans: cabin in the mountains. Reality: locked out, dogs judging me, 220 miles later… back home. Still counts as an adventure, right? 🎄🤷🏼♀️
The afternoon sunshine started to fade Into the dark, like the plans we had made. After an hour that seemed more like two, “Sadly, there is nothing more we can do.”
The grandkids were angry, and so was I. My daughter, defeated, wanted to cry. My son-in-law? Bless the heart of this spouse. He laughed and said, “How about Waffle House?”
By this time the dogs had marked every tree. No longer caring, I squatted to pee Behind a trash can, safely out of view. Security cameras? Just one or two.
We had to decide — it was getting late. No decent options provided by fate. We all hugged good-bye and got in our cars. We drove back to Georgia beneath the stars.
One hundred miles, and then I was home, Travel completed and nowhere to roam. Christmas lasagna was not meant to be. Instead, a sandwich — dogs staring at me.
“Please, Mum, might we have some more?”
Tucked in my bed, I was sleepy and warm, With Maggie and Phoebe — back to our norm. My eyelids grew heavy, but not my soul: There are things in life I cannot control.
I fell asleep with no pain or sorrow. Christmas morning will be here tomorrow: Not in a cabin surrounded by trees, I don’t need fancy; my heart is at ease.
We’ll gather together, the kids and me, And open the presents under the tree. We’ll eat Christmas turkey and drink eggnog, And later enjoy that post-dinner fog.
Laughter will ring through the air like a bell. Past Christmas stories will make my heart swell. With love in my heart and kids in my arms, Holiday magic will sprinkle its charms.
When the day’s over, I’ll slip into bed, Dogs by my side, pillow under my head. Stars in the sky will show up and twinkle. I’m glad I can stay indoors to tinkle. 😁🙃🙈🎄🎁
Christmas and nostalgia often go hand in hand. Sometimes that old, familiar longing settles a little too heavily in my chest, causing my heart to ache and my eyes to sting. Memories seem to have their own pulse — one that keeps beating in my ears, again and again.
I planned to make a list of what I miss about Christmas. I rummaged through old photos and found several gems — ghosts of Christmas past. But instead of making a list (and checking it twice), I chose something different.
Here are a few moments, captured on film and held in my heart. ❤️
When Dad had 70s hair. Before elf on the shelf, there were four on the floor.Before matching pajamas. Before filters. Before we knew what a ‘vibe’ was. Christmas, 1970s edition.1976: Mom in the middle. All of us close.Grampy and Grammy, circa 1985. Christmas with the people who made it feel safe, warm, and steady.A quiet moment between my grandma and my baby sister.Matching dresses, tiny hands, and Christmas magic — 1994.Christmas 1997 — me in the middle, holding the whole world in my lap.Two sisters, one giant bear, and a season full of magic.The beginning of us. Before we knew how much life we’d share—or how deeply I’d love this man.Saying “I do,” surrounded by our family and the certainty that this was home.After the ceremony—just us, winter air, and a promise.Same lights, new little faces.
Our last Christmas with Steve. We celebrated later than planned. I’m grateful we did.
Nostalgia braided with sadness isn’t weakness. It’s love with nowhere to land right now.
Every now and then, this page pauses the laughter long enough to remember why humor matters. Because sometimes joy and sorrow hold hands — and that’s where healing hides.
I’ve been sitting here trying to come up with a clever title for this post. Grief Is Weird. Birthdays and Goodbyes. Life Before…
Before what, exactly? (Insert exasperated sigh from your brilliant — but tired — blogger.)
To put it bluntly: life before Steve died.
In 2020 — because of course it was the year the world shut down — my husband, Steve, was diagnosed with bladder cancer. That alone is devastating enough. Pair cancer with the pandemic restrictions that determined whether a wife could accompany her terrified husband to doctor appointments or visit him after surgeries, and that devastation becomes insurmountable.
That was our reality from his first ER visit in the early hours of April 24, 2020 — my 50th birthday — until his last breath on February 1, 2023. To sum up those 1,013 days in one word: exhausting. Emotionally, mentally, physically, spiritually exhausting.
I’m not here tonight to share those details — not yet.
Today is Steve’s 52nd birthday. It’s one of those “dates to anticipate” when you’re grieving — birthdays, holidays, anniversaries — any occasion that calls for extra celebration. The strange thing about grief, though, is that those dates don’t always hit when you expect them to. But catch me on a random Tuesday, focused on work with zero apparent triggers, and I’m in the restroom blowing my nose and willing myself to pull it together.
Grief is weird.
When I mentioned to friends and colleagues that today is Steve’s birthday, most offered sympathetic nods and kind words. For the first time since life before, I found myself saying, “No, it’s okay — I’m good.” And I meant it.
It’s not that I don’t miss him. We were married eleven short years, and there was never a doubt we would, as Steve liked to say, go the distance. It wasn’t the first marriage for either of us, but it was the one we finally got right.
I don’t believe we fell in love a little too late. I believe we fell in love just in time.
Three years ago today, we celebrated his final birthday here on earth. He had just started in-home hospice care — no longer undergoing treatment — but at that point, he felt tired, yet good. We were closing in on goodbye, but we weren’t there yet.
I no longer feel guilty if I don’t cry on his birthday, or Christmas, or our anniversary. Not because he wouldn’t want me to. Not because I’ve stopped caring. Not because I don’t miss him.
The love Steve and I shared built a foundation strong enough to keep carrying me. Our relationship was anchored in faith, grace, laughter, and the choice to love each other every day.
Today, I celebrate Steve’s birthday knowing he’s celebrating with Jesus. I smile when I picture his giant personality and that contagious grin.
Happy birthday, my love. My life is sweeter because you loved me, and Heaven is sweeter because you’re there.
💛 To anyone missing someone today: may your memories feel softer than your grief, and may you find a smile tucked somewhere inside the ache.
Steve on a day when love looked like a Coke & his smile.
Menopause & Malarkey 