For those of you who subscribed to The Grieving Room newsletter and have followed me throughout this journey for the past four months, thank you.
Grief is a lifelong process with many obstacles and various structures and forms and I doubt there will ever be an endpoint, but I feel as though the newsletter itself deserves an endpoint.
There will always be something creative flowing within me to work through grieving, whether it be poetry, creative non-fiction, or a memoir-like essay, but at this time, I have shared what I can and I will continue to learn what I can about grief and grieving and grow with every experience.
If you recently subscribed, you can find all entries in the links below via LinkedIn or Medium.
Thank you for coming along on this journey with me. It will not stop, but I am headed down a new path and this is my place to get off and possibly transfer.
Jernee Timid after a morning of making me worry myself nearly into a fit. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
Finding inspiration wherever I can
I signed up for overtime this past Thursday for work this morning, and low and behold … Jernee had other plans for me — for us. The Little Monster’s history is riddled with relapses because of GERD and hemorrhagic gastroenteritis. I am no stranger to these abrupt changes in our routines, but it can be frustrating and equally taxing.
About 6 years ago, I would silently blame Jernee for many of the things I missed out on because of those relapses. There have been several concerts (Maze featuring Frankie Beverly, The Isley Brothers, and Mint Condition), trips, and just the ordinary weekend trip away or visit to my best friend’s home I have had to cancel because attending to my dog came first.
A sudden illness sparked by whatever in this sweet baby has always halted any plans I have made. One would think I wouldn’t be as strict on planning as I am, given the fact many of my plans have been shot entirely in the ground, but I do still plan. I am optimistic about what I would like to do and often want to see them through.
I have learned to live with these occurrences. There is no way for me to know whenever she will fall ill, just as there is no way for me to know when I will not be at my best, either. Taking it in stride whenever I am able helps me to deal with her illnesses and now, her age.
I have a voice in the back of my head, though, that sometimes whispers, “Think of all the things you could have done if you weren’t caring for something/someone else.” And on these days, it is harder to get past the reality of it and move forward.
This morning, when I noticed her slow pace and the constant smacking and licking of her nose, I sprung into action. Had we overdone the morning walk? Was there something in her water bowl I overlooked? Did she lick something off the grass I didn’t quite see? What now?! What?! What?! What?!
I picked her up partway home, scaled 3 flights of stairs, and monitored her just as I have done many times before this morning.
Regardless of these things, Jernee inspires me. She has given me several essays, haiku, and other poetic forms, and memoir-like creative nonfiction stories to share. She has been endless amounts of joy for me — knowing when to paw at my face gently or land a wet kiss on my cheek.
She is an overseer of sorts, always geared up for my protection, and she will face any dog or person of any size. She loves me that much. Her health is my concern and if I have to take time away from grinding and enjoying some brief moments in life, I will continue to do it.
If I could be half the person my dog is, I’d be twice the human I am. — Charles Yu
The Good Place and writing through grief
This past Monday, July 11, 2022, I had the day off to recover from the busy weekend we had last weekend. A couple days before my kid sister’s arrival, at the recommendation of a good friend of mine, I began watching The Good Place on Netflix.
I will be honest. I made it to episode 3 of season 1 and had thought I’d had enough. I sent my friend a text message basically telling her I did not want to watch something that spurred a great deal of anger within me. She mentioned how she had a hard time getting through the first few episodes as well, but soldiered on to get to the core of the series.
I laid off watching it for a few days and returned to it after I had time to calm down and work through some of my emotions regarding the first 3 episodes. The satiric connotations and subtle humor did not hit me instantly, but when I allowed myself to engage in episodes 4 through 10, I understood where the series was going.
Now, as I am nearing the last few episodes of the last season, I appreciate this series more. The concept of trying to do all we can to inspire good within ourselves and others while we’re still alive has an undeniable, strong meaning.
We will not get multiple do-overs as the characters in The Good Place. We have this life — this one life — to make a powerful statement. To do good and be as kind, understanding, loving, and charitable as we can.
Of course, while watching this series, I thought about my cousin. I wondered how she would react to this series and if we’d bounce ideas off each other to bring about more creativity and love into this world. And this is where it hit me — where the pain settled in for a while, and I had to write about it.
If you were to tell me this would be my life ten years ago, I would’ve uttered some common phrases like, “The Devil is a lie” or “You can’t predict the future,” and I would’ve swiped my tongue gingerly across my two front teeth.
Nothing can bring hell like the death of a loved one — like the sound of one heart breaking into a million pieces and scattering itself throughout your entire body.
How does it feel to walk around with your insides regrouping while you find your center?
Loss will always happen. There will always be people in this world who make us cringe. There will always be moments when we want nothing more than to have as many do-overs in life as we can, but the truth is we have the time we have now to do what we need to in order to be and get better.
How many of us will choose this?
Looking forward to a much-needed release
I have therapy coming up this week. I have questions and if there aren’t answers, I will have to learn to be okay with this. But I will ask those questions. Two of those questions revolve around my job and what I believe is best for me or how much more should I dedicate myself to giving what I have and what I can to patient care and service.
I am also struggling a great deal with wanting to take on writing/editing/content creation full-time, and not landing any job opportunities revolving around the above. I read a quote somewhere by someone I will paraphrase: “A dream is a dream. Sometimes it’s not meant to be true.”
How many of us will actually land our “dream job?” How many of us will live out our lives doing what we absolutely love above any and everything else and also get paid for it? How many of us are genuinely happy when we do land that “dream job” and not just sharing the notable moments while we skirt about the less significant ones?
This week is nearly behind me, and I want to be sure I step into the next one with a happier and healthier heart in tow. I have to make that happen. No one else can.
And I’m not lying. I tell people, “I’m trying” because really, I am. But my heart breaks every single day still, and it feels like I’m watching the world crumble before my eyes.
People don’t want to be around the grieving ones.
It puts them in a place of discomfort — shifts them from good times to “Is this still happening?” and since I can’t quite answer their questions, I bubble up in the safety of my home and swat at the hard times slowly creeping up my stairs.
If you were to tell me this would be my life ten years ago, I would’ve uttered some common phrases like, “The Devil is a lie” or “You can’t predict the future,” and I would’ve swiped my tongue gingerly across my two front teeth.
Nothing can bring hell like the death of a loved one — like the sound of one heart breaking into a million pieces and scattering itself throughout your entire body.
How does it feel to walk around with your insides regrouping while you find your center?
I am told it’s okay to struggle — to flounce about with my head bowed, searching for the writing in the dirt under my feet. Where there’s dust, there also will I be …
I don’t want to dissolve into the muddy waters of this stomach-churning world, so I pull myself out of the quicksand of despair and snail on while I still can.
I wish you were still here. I am second-guessing myself again. It’s almost like a default setting, and every time I try to move through it, I sink even deeper.
I have trouble seeing past my most hated self — it’s hard to shove that part of me deep into a closet and throw away the key.
I feel like I have to soon, though. Because if I don’t, the sun will back away from me and never lay itself at my heels again. And that, my beautiful cousin, would be a life I don’t want to live.
Land of the Free (laughable). Home of the Brave (how sure are we about that?). This … a country that would rather make it illegal for a woman or a person with a uterus to make their OWN decision about what to do with THEIR body because well, it can versus implementing gun laws that could save hundreds of thousands of lives.
*Comments are closed because I don’t feel like arguing with anyone who does NOT have a uterus or arguing with someone who DOES have a uterus but does not realize the impact this decision will have on everyone.
Baby Tre and my dad, “Big Mike.” From the family archives.
A lone, baby girl — your first, sheltered in your embrace. You loved her. You love her. Old photos are passed down through the hands of a younger baby girl. You love her, too.
How have our memories been floating around the family tree making their way through our bloodline?
I look at this photo, it moves me. I am centered and sure of myself and happy. I knew I was safe in one of my favorite places — my father’s arms.
Does your youngest know this, too? If only we could rewind time but why would we? What would that accomplish?
There is an overaged pain that sneaks up on me and reminds me of better days but life isn’t too keen on rekindling old flames.
I have lost my fire.
But I look at this lone, baby girl and I remember being loved. I remember using your arm as my personal swing.
I remember learning how to swim and being tickled until my toes cramped from nonstop laughter.
I remember you. I remember you.
And I count it as a blessing there are still memories to recall of happier days when I was a lone, baby girl leaning into safe arms learning how to love.
Father’s Day is fast approaching in the US, and I still can’t say some of the things I wish to say to my father without choking up but I can always tell him, “I love you,” because I do. And I always will. If you’re a father, may someone spill a little love down on you this coming weekend. Peace and blessings.
A Cornered Gurl 
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