Since every death diminishes us a little, we grieve – not so much for the death as for ourselves.
-Lynn Caine

Shoveling the snow from the recent and on-going snow storm, I was aware of the silence. I heard nothing except for the sound snowflakes falling and the occasional sound of a shovel scrape from a house a few blocks over. I didn’t want to cry as I knew the tears would freeze to my cheeks but, still they came, in the calm, quiet of the aftermath of yet another phone call that changed our lives as we know them.

Tomorrow will mark one month since my Grandfather suddenly left our lives forever. Today the phone call came that FireDad’s Uncle passed away after a long battle with cancer. The news wasn’t unexpected. He left James Cancer Center a couple of weeks ago with the news that his kidneys were now failing. If I know anything about organs, I know kidneys. I knew it would be soon. And yet, I wasn’t ready. The grief from my Grandfather hasn’t yet settled and I found myself in tears on Saturday night. Not calm, happy tears but the kind that make you heave and choke. It’s still raw. And now this.

The quote above, found as I was desperately seeking solace this morning, speaks well to what I’m feeling. My heart is broken for my husband’s family, a family that I am proud to call my own as well. His uncle leaves behind a wife, three sons and their wives, six grandchildren with one more due to arrive in two weeks, two siblings (one of whom is my mother-in-law), nephews and their families (us), a niece (my sister-in-law) and her husband and, of course, his Mother, our beloved Granna. The grief for each of these different people is different. I stand on what some might consider the outside of a family circle and I feel a complete and overwhelming sense of loss for each of them, for all of us.

I am aware that the grief I am feeling currently is compounded by my recent loss. I am also aware that my husband feels the same, as he views my family as his own and, as such, he lost a Grandfather not even a month ago. I am not saying that we don’t miss his Uncle and that we don’t miss my Grandpa. But I’m aware, today, how much grief is more about those of us left behind than the one we have just lost. Living life without those that are such a part of us is difficult. At best. Making a new reality for ourselves is a long process.

My heart is broken for all of these people in my family right now. As the snow continued to fall while I was outside, I allowed myself to be lost in thought, in the swirly white winds cutting through my jacket, my soul. Life seems fragile lately and, really, I don’t quite like that feeling. As I battled with those tears freezing to my face, a friend landed on a branch and chirped at me. I turned and took in the beauty of his red feathers against the white snow. He chirped again. I listened.

Life continues on even in spite of our grief. On the day of my Grandfather’s funeral, FireDad’s best man and his wife welcomed their first daughter. Today, as the news of yet another loss in our family washes over us in tears and heartache, we received word that one of my dear local friends is in active labor with her first son after two girls. Their births soften the blow a bit, remind me that life really does continue on even in the moments when we wish we could rewind time, ask for a do-over or just press the pause button for a day or two.

I know that we will survive this loss and the surrounding grief just as, one day, it really will stop snowing. Like the seasons and both the joys and sorrows they bring with them, we enter this next season of grief hoping that some joy comes. And soon.

“It is the memory that enables a person to gather roses in January.” – Unknown

January is over. I can’t say that I’m sad to see it go. What started off as a wonderful month has become an increasingly difficult year. The death of my beloved Grandfather has thrown me for a loop, leaving me unable to find the words to properly blog over the past few weeks. With some other severe health concerns in my husband’s family, FireDad and I are somewhat dreading the continuation of this year. That sounds so negative and unlike me, unlike us as a whole.

And yet, while I’ve been immensely sad, the quote above applies. Something about the passing of someone so dear allows us to reach into the back caverns of our mind and remember things we simply hadn’t taken the time to pull to the front of our brains. I know that I was lucky. Or, rather, I am lucky to have been so loved by such a wonderful man. I am the luckiest of all of the grandchildren in the fact that my children not only got to meet their great-grandfather, their Big Papau, but they got to love and interact and play and laugh with him as well. I feel sad that my brother and his wife won’t know that same joy. I feel even more sad that the other grandchildren won’t get to introduce their future spouses to Grandpa. Maybe I am the luckiest. I do try to remember that.

Despite the grief of this month, it’s been a rather successful one. I’ve read eight books and, no, I don’t know where I found the time. I hit my deadlines though it was very difficult for me to do last week and contributed to a lack of blogging here (and there). I drove around Ohio. We just finished the floor in our kitchen and dining room (more about that project here). (By we I mean my amazing husband with a smidgen of help from his dad, his grandpa and a phone call to one of my uncles.) I started yoga in a class setting and really kicked up my own personal workout time, successfully losing two pounds this month (though I may have gained that back this weekend during a lovely day out with my friends). I started hosting two separate (awesome) giveaways. I had a post syndicated on BlogHer (go leave a comment on my parenting in public post if you would). And I took (at least) one picture, every single day.

In 2008 when my maternal (step)Grandfather died, I failed that very week at Project 365. I really thought that the passing of my paternal Grandfather would do the same. Instead, in the confusing hour after that phone call, I picked up my camera and expressed my grief visually. I may fancy myself a writer but the photographer in me comes out when I can’t find the words to say what I’m feeling in the deep recesses of my heart. January, of course, proves difficult in this region when it comes to creativity and lighting. I do hope that during the month of February I can work on being a bit more creative and not just flubbing through the project. Either way, I’ll keep at it.

January was difficult but it seems that I not only survived but managed to be rather successful despite the fog of grief. I will admit that even though they often bring tears, remembering and sharing stories and memories about my Papau has been a welcome distraction from the sadness. It’s been my way of gathering roses in this bleak midwinter month of January. Though, I’ll be honest, I’m ready for Spring as I have an idea to honor my Grandfather.

Plus, I’m cold. Brr.

When the phone call came on that Sunday morning, I immediately called my husband who was at work. I asked him to come home from the fire station which is where he always is when we have an emergency of some sort. That’s how the fire life works. After I talked to him, I called my best friend back in Pennsylvania, near The Farm, and sobbed at her to contact my parents’ Pastor. She’s the only other person I could have called in that state of incoherency; the only person that could have understood me through my tears.

While waiting for my husband to arrive home, I sat down and both tweeted and posted on Facebook about my grandfather’s sudden death. While people have come under fire for tweeting at a time of tragedy, it was the only thing left that made sense for me to do at the time. I was two hours from my family, waiting for my biggest support person to arrive home and I was absolutely hysterical. I needed to reach out to someone, to anyone.

I’m so glad that I did.

The response that I got was overwhelming (in a good way). Soon the reply tweets, direct messages, Facebook replies, e-mails and phone calls started coming. I still haven’t managed to reply to every single message that came in during the course of a very, very long week of intense grieving. I plan to but it’s been slow going. I received messages from others who had endured similar losses in the recent past. I received sympathy cards. In my snail mailbox. I received a box of Valentine cards (Toy Story, of course) from a friend who wanted to help me “check something off my to-do list,” as her card read. And I received real, physical help from someone I met during another tragic Internet gathering who helped me fix an error with my grandfather’s obituary when it ran without the photo and then showed up at my grandfather’s calling hours on his lunch break. These people reached out to me in my time of need just like my “real life,” just-down-the-road friends who picked up my mail and bought me a coat. Do you know why?

These people on the Internet aren’t just strangers on the other side of a keyboard. They’re friends.

I get frustrated when people dismiss friendships or relationships that were formed via keyboard. The fact that some of these friends sent apology emails, feeling guilty for not being able to attend services, lets me know that we’re more than just anonymous people hiding behind screens. Over the years, through blogs and forums and, yes, even twitter, lasting friendships have been formed. People care about one another. In the midst of this sudden and excruciating loss, I have been comforted by the fact that so many people care about the well-being of my family. Online and off, my family has been touched this week by the outpouring of love. I should make a small aside to say that my friends who live both in Ohio and Pennsylvania were also equally amazing during this very difficult time. Again, I have been so touched and so amazed by the support offered by so many loving individuals.

I’m still not “okay” with this sudden loss. I am still mostly heartbroken, still prone to tears at random moments when he crosses my mind in a memory. I appreciate this space here on the Internet where I can talk about him as I need to, when I can tweet about missing him, and not be reproached for grieving improperly. I am thankful for those who continue to reach out, to ask after my grandmother and to offer support. My grandfather was a loyal man and the loyalty that has been shown to me by my friends, near and far, is something that honors his legacy.

Good job, Internet. Good job. And, mostly, thank you. So very much.

I was four when I lost my great-grandpa to cancer. BigBrother is four. I have vague memories of running around the funeral home with a cousin of mine who was slightly older. I also have fleeting, brief memories of the man who was the equivalent of Big Papau to my sons. I am hoping that BigBrother will retain some memories as well.

We chose not to tell BigBrother right away. We decided to let him attend indoor soccer practice that day (Sunday) as they only have two practices before they start playing games. He kept asking why I was sad. I kept telling him that we’d talk about it after soccer. And still, I didn’t tell him until we made the drive to my parents’ house. We told him that Big Papau had died. He asked a question or two and that was that for the evening.

The children attended both viewings with us. I need to have a Proud Mommy moment where I tell you that they were so well behaved that I wondered if they were really my children. In the moments before the first viewing, as we took time as individuals and families to look at Big Papau in the casket and say some goodbyes, we explained again that Big Papau was dead. Shortly after, BigBrother was heard telling someone to be quiet since Big Papau was sleeping.

That, of course, broke my heart a thousand times over.

As we were tucking the kids in bed after the second set of calling hours, I let them know that the following morning we would be going to church for Big Papau’s funeral. At that point in time, BigBrother said, and I quote:

So, he’ll wake up there?

A thousand and ten times over.

We spent some more time explaining that while it looked like Big Papau was sleeping, he was really in Heaven with Jesus. After the funeral, we wouldn’t see him anymore. Again, he asked a few questions and decided he was satisfied and then rolled over to go to sleep.

The funeral was beautiful. The bagpiper who lead the casket out played “Amazing Grace” and I cried tears of sadness and pride. The meal downstairs in the fellowship hall was delicious and, much like had happened twenty-four years prior, BigBrother and LittleBrother ran around with their slightly older cousin, laughing the innocent laugh of hearts that have not yet been broken. They were the breath of fresh air that the rest of us needed. These children are my grandfather’s legacy; it’s a good one.

As we packed up yesterday afternoon to head back to our home, we said our goodbyes to everyone. Heading down the driveway, BigBrother asked one more question. His little mind must have been in overdrive all week.

“So, is BigPapau still with Jesus?”

Oh, my Buddy. You’re so precious.

I have hope that BigBrother will remember something of a man that is quoted in his obituary as adoring his two great-grandsons. He did. He adored them. As much as I loved my Papau, I loved that my Papau loved my children even more. I hope that if they aren’t able to remember playing trains, being pushed up/down the hill, riding on the tractor or any number of activities that they did with Big Papau, I hope that they are able to think of this great man and know, without question, that they were loved.

They were so very loved.

I hope they remember the love.

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[I have a big post coming on Monday about the Internet, friends and death/tragedy. This week has taken so much out of me that I just haven't been able to put anything I wanted to say into words. But know that I am so very thankful for the way our family has been prayed for, though of and cared for during this time. Thank you.]