On Grief
Before I became a (step) cat mom, I was a plant mom. And I don’t use the term “mom” in a way that suggests that I actually do any real caretaking or deserve any sort of credit that human moms do. I use it in more of a satirical way. As I’m watching my friends become mothers, my belief that moms are strong as hell and are the backbone of our society has been reiterated over and over again. So, I’m not usually a person who calls myself a “cat mom” or a “plant mom” because I really don’t want to devalue the work that actual moms do. But for the sake of this blog post, I am calling myself a plant mom.
Anyway, when I was 25 and got my first solo apartment on the Lower East Side of Milwaukee, I bought some house plants to spruce up the place and give me a sense of purpose and responsibility (i.e. fill the void of dog ownership that I truly wanted but realistically knew wasn’t right for me at that point in my life, and still isn’t). I named each of my plants, Jasmine the jade, Hector the snake plant, Earl the Dracaena, Louise the aloe, and most importantly, Sue, the ZZ plant named after my late grandmother, who we lost in 2013. I also had some air plants and cacti but I can’t remember their names now. I know you’re not supposed to have a favorite child, but Sue was always my favorite. I really thought of her as a representation of my grandma, always there with me. Although the internet says that snake plants are “virtually indestructible,” I managed to kill most of my plants, including Hector, the “indestructible” snake plant. When I went to a plant store to replace a few plants, I asked an employee for advice on why they were dying, and she said, “it sounds like you just loved them too much,” meaning I overwatered them.
I always felt like that was an apt description for me. Loving too much. Sometimes my emotions just feel so… big. I feel everything with my entire heart and body. I love too much. But the older I get, the more I wonder if there’s such a thing as loving too much. I don’t think so. Isn’t love the whole purpose of everything?
When James and I embarked on our journey across the country in 2022, my mom volunteered to take care of my plants. Of my original squad from that first apartment 5 years ago, the only remaining survivors were Jasmine, Louise, and my girl Sue. I’d replaced the others, bought a few more, and received some as gifts from friends. I stopped naming them but started taking better care of them. I learned more about their needs and how to nurture them properly. My mom self-proclaims that she doesn’t have a green thumb, so I was nervous to leave them in her care but figured it couldn’t be any worse than my caring for them at 25. When we came back for a visit later that year, she told me that she read that saying kind words and singing to plants helps them grow, so she sings to them sometimes, especially Sue. Every time I picture her singing to my little plants, I get choked up. We don’t deserve our mothers’ love. And yet, they love us anyway. I think my mom also has really big emotions. That must be where I got it from. And she not only kept all my plants alive, but she helped them thrive!
Hector the snake plant (loved him too much)
Jasmine the Jade (gave her a sufficient amount of love and she is still with us today in Seattle)
Sue the ZZ plant, Louise the aloe, and Earl the Dracaena (mixed results)
During our nomad years and up through the beginning of this year, we experienced some great loss. I paused on writing travel blogs because I couldn’t bring myself to talk about this time two years ago. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be ready to talk about it, and I wrote and rewrote this essay about a million times. It was my dad’s birthday and we were in Manchester, New Hampshire, the town that James’s dad grew up in. We were planning to tour all of his old stomping grounds, and visit his mom’s hometown, Pelham. It reminded me of 2015, when I visited Ireland and my second cousin Tommy took me around Mayo to see all the significant places from my grandma’s childhood. He also drove me to Kilkenny to introduce me to all of my grandpa’s family (none of whom he is actually related to—he’s my grandma’s nephew. Bless him). It was one of the most impactful and memorable weeks of my life, so I was excited to repeat a similar process and see the places that James’s family came from. We would spend some time there and then make a few stops along the way back home to see family and attend a wedding at the end of July.
On July 22, 2022, I was planning to call my dad and wish him a happy birthday, but instead woke up to a call from him. Nothing could prepare me for the feeling of hearing him tell me that my grandma—his mom, the namesake of my middle name, Ann—had passed away. On his birthday. The call was quick; neither of us could say much without crying. For some reason, all I could think about in that moment was, “did she get the postcard I sent her?” She didn’t. After I hung up, I immediately collapsed to the floor crying while James rushed over, worried, with no context yet, trying to piece me back together. Why didn’t I call her more? Why didn’t I send that postcard a few days earlier? Why did this happen the same year that we decided to travel around the country? I should have been there. I should have spent more time with her. I should have known. But of course, you can’t really know these things. The last time I had seen her in early June, a bit over a month before, James and I were eager to hit the road again after a family party. As we were about to leave, she grabbed my arm and said, “you’re not leaving yet! Sit down and tell me more about your trip!” We stayed for another hour and talked with her. I’m so glad we did. I had no idea it would be the last chance I got.
We both took that day off of work and then toured Manchester and Pelham as planned. It felt like a way of being connected to her—repeating those same actions I took in Ireland but with James and his family. We took photos in front of his parents’ childhood homes, schools, and places that were important to them. It was an emotional day. Then we rushed home over the next two days to be with my family, driving 9 hours to Erie, PA, and another 7 to Chicago. We had a tray of brownies in tow that we were planning to take to my cousin Jim’s house for a visit in Boston before we found out the news. We ate the brownies straight from the pan and had some of the best Chinese food I’ve ever had in Erie. I honestly don’t know if it was truly good food or if I was just emotional eating and it tasted better with grief. But I still think about that General Tso’s Tofu all the time. It’s funny the things that stick out in your memory—I remember this week from two years ago like it was yesterday.
2015
2022
The service for my grandma was beautiful. It wasn’t easy but it felt good to be surrounded by family. I made a video montage of photos to play at the wake and cried while I listened to Amazing Grace. We missed most of our friends’ wedding but stopped by at the end of the night and soaked in some of the love. We stayed home until August 4, then made our way to Indiana. It felt too quick. I feel like I barely had time to process my emotions before hitting the road and moving on to the next city. Without processing the grief, I became irritable and took it out on people I love, especially James. I told myself that this was better than wallowing in self-pity. It's not. The curious thing about grief is that everyone goes through it and yet it feels so lonely. Maybe because we all grieve differently. I think the reason why I kept pushing through (other than having an itinerary already planned and hotels already booked), is that I didn’t want to get stuck in the phase where everything hurts. I was hurting for my dad, for my aunts and uncles, for my cousins, for my grandma’s sister, great Aunt Phil, and for me. It’s so easy for me to feel those big emotions, get sad, and feel like I’ll never come out of it. I’ve been on the depression train before and I really didn’t want to get on it again. But there’s also this sense of guilt that I felt for continuing to travel and enjoy things. It often feels like you’re not supposed to move on or ever experience delight again when you’ve lost someone. But that’s the thing: you have to.
A former classmate of mine started an entire initiative based on this: you get to be sad, but you have to keep going. Feeling your feelings is important. Being sad is part of the human experience. You have to cry it out and hug your family and reminisce. And then you have to learn how to live with the sadness because it never truly goes away. You can’t let it consume you; you have to keep going. The semi colon is such a poignant symbol for it. It’s simply a continuation. Be sad; keep going. I know it’s what my grandma would have wanted. She was always a big supporter of my travels and adventures. She would have wanted me to keep going. Shortly after celebrating my grandma’s life, James’s family cat passed away, compounding the pain and grief. It just felt like everything was falling apart all at once. We changed our travel plans a bit to stay in Indiana an extra day but again, it didn’t feel like enough time before we were on to the next city. Sometimes I wonder if we made the right call.
We spent the remainder of that year and 2023 as nomads enjoying life, experiencing new things, surrounding ourselves with people we love, and trying to adjust to a life with loss. Grief isn’t linear. It’s more like a squiggly line. I have my ups and downs and I still think about my grandma all the time. When we were in Japan earlier this year, I saw an older woman about her age wandering around a souvenir shop, stopping to observe toys and candy, and I assume she was looking for the perfect gift for her grandchild. I cried thinking what I wouldn’t give to have a grandma still here to shop with or shop for. Both of my grandmas were so good at that—they always took care to find the perfect gifts for their grandchildren. One of my favorite stories about Grandma Ann is that she once went so far as returning a pair of jeans she bought me from American Eagle because she noticed that they had rips in them (that was the style, as the friendly AE employee explained). Sometimes grief just hits you in ways that you don’t expect it, like seeing someone shop for souvenirs. I can’t listen to certain songs without getting emotional. I rarely have scones or chocolate chip cookies anymore because they’ll never be the same as how she made them. Sometimes I just have to cry, and that’s okay.
Grandma Ann and Grandpa Larry on their wedding day
Christmas with the Butlers 2021
I love this portrait of her
Holding her great-grandson, Bennett
Death is inevitable. And yet, it hits you like a ton of bricks every time it happens to someone you love. We found out in late December 2023 that my grandpa, on my mom’s side this time, had an aggressive cancer and there was no cure. Any chemotherapy or radiation would be too hard on his kidney (actually, his brother’s transplanted kidney), and the doctor recommended we start making our final memories together and planning for hospice. Grandpa Fred was my last living grandparent—I was lucky enough to know and be loved by all four of my grandparents and two great-grandparents. The cancer was more aggressive than we thought—he lived only a month after the diagnosis.
James tested positive for covid and stayed back in Franklin to quarantine while I went to Boscobel with my family to spend time with my grandpa. What was supposed to be our family Christmas celebration turned into taking care of him and saying our final goodbyes. There was so much love in that house as relatives stopped by throughout the week and we took turns administering medicine, sleeping on the couch next to him, telling stories and just being together. On January 8, 2024, surrounded by family, we all held each other and cried as we watched my grandpa take his last breath.
I’m so grateful that James and I got to spend a week with my grandpa and his significant other, Kathy, during our travels. I don’t think he understood the concept of working remotely and he frequently made comments about how I was always at the computer everyday, but we adjusted our work schedules so we could spend time together and worked when they went to bed. We went to an apple orchard, went out to eat, toured Boscobel and the surrounding areas, spent some time at the farm, met Kathy’s cat Banksy, went to a volleyball game, worked on a puzzle, watched a lot of Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune, and mostly just talked. I think everyone in our family knows that he and I had very different views on politics. He was never shy about sharing his opinions and neither am I. I used to think that he was just trying to pick a fight, but that week I realized that he genuinely wanted to understand my perspective and was open to changing his mind. I’m grateful that I had the time to get to know him that way before he left.
The funeral for my grandpa was at the end of January. Our move to Seattle was set for the middle of January and our lease started on the 10th. We obviously delayed the move and stayed with my parents until after the funeral. It was a beautiful service with military honors and at least half the town of Boscobel in attendance. He was loved by many. For whatever reason, James and I decided that after the funeral we would work from my grandpa’s house for a few days and then drive straight to Seattle. We packed the Honda CR-V full with everything that would fit, including Marine and her litter box, my plants, and a rooftop cargo. We drove through freezing temperatures and spent the week there, then made the trek to Seattle. There were a lot of parallels between the death of my paternal grandma and maternal grandpa. Just like last time, it felt too quick. I barely had time to process my emotions before packing up my entire life and moving to the other side of the country. I did that thing again where I avoided feeling the feelings so I got irritable and cranky instead. Once again, the grief came out in unexpected places. When I was at an artist meetup in Seattle trying to make new friends, Neon Moon by Brooks & Dunn started playing and I had to excuse myself to go cry in the bathroom. I still think about him often.
During the rush of moving everything and making funeral arrangements, we somehow forgot to take my ZZ plant Sue out of the car the week of the funeral. Needless to say, she didn’t survive the frigid Wisconsin temperatures of the car in January, and she died in Boscobel. It was heartbreaking that this symbol that I was holding onto to represent my grandma died while we were at her home, mourning her love. I finally broke down and ugly cried more than I had that entire week. I thought of my mom singing to Sue and tenderly caring for her to keep her alive for me for almost two years. I thought of my actual grandma Sue and her soul reuniting with my grandpa Fred. I thought of life ending unexpectedly and having to pivot and start over again. James took the plant to the backyard at my grandpa’s house and buried it in the snow while I cried myself to sleep.
Grandpa Fred and Grandma Sue, high school sweethearts
With his siblings and Uncle Tom
Fred and Kathy
Family photos 2019
At the end of April we suffered another loss of someone who was dear to us. My second cousin, Jim, who hosted us for a week in Boston while we were traveling, passed away. We got to know him and his partner Matt while we were there, and we had so much fun with him. Spending a week with someone really brings you closer together. I felt this way with James’s aunts and uncles when they graciously hosted us, with my Grandpa and Kathy, and with Jim. I wish that we had more time together. I wish we had made an effort to get out there more often to visit. It seems unfair that we finally got to know him and then he was taken away. It was hard not to be angry that left the world too soon. Sometimes life just isn’t fair. News of his passing hit me harder than I thought it would. He read every single email blast I sent, read every single blog, checked in on our travels and sent me updates on his. The compounded pain over the past two years didn’t help. He just seemed so happy and healthy when we came to visit that it was hard to imagine his health would decline so much. Unfortunately, we weren’t able to make it to the memorial in Ireland because I was in the process of renewing my passport, and we weren’t able to make it to the memorial in Boston because it was the same day as my grandparents’ internment ceremony. I found myself wishing more than ever that I could be in two places at once.
With Jim at the Boston Marathon
Singing "I Will Survive" at the Red Sox game — Jim's official song when he was diagnosed with cancer in 2018.
With Jim and his kids Teddy and Charlotte
The internment ceremony was a good way to find some closure. In true Fred fashion, my grandpa’s ashes didn’t fit into the urn. We laid them both to rest together and shared stories with the family. My great, great uncle Tom, who’s now 91 years old, told us stories as we visited the graves of family members passed. I think that’s a great way to keep our family members alive—by telling their stories. I’ll hold on to that memory for a long time. I’m certainly not done grieving but I’m learning to live with the losses.
I’m 30 now and I’m not ready for the part of life where it feels like everyone I love is dying. But I guess you’re never “ready” for that. And it only gets worse from here. I think a big part of life is figuring out how to cope with that loss and come to terms with the impermanence of everything. Maybe temporary things are more valuable because that mean's it’s special. Maybe grief is proof that we’re human and that we love the things and the people that make this world special. I guess this is just a reminder to myself and to anyone who needs it to say “I love you” more, to hug a little tighter, to appreciate what you have while you still have it.
Sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice by moving across the country and being so far away from my family. There’s a constant dichotomy of “distance makes the heart grow fonder” vs. feeling like I’m missing out on big, important life events. Since I still haven’t figured out how to be in two places at once, I’m simultaneously feeling like I found a place that I know is home, and mourning the loss of community that I had in my other home. I think about how I’m so happy here but I also miss my people so much. I know that life is fleeting and that I’ll never get this time back. I also know that I don’t want to look back at my life and wonder “what if?” What if I never chased my dreams? What if I never left my hometown? I feel like another way to honor your family’s legacy is to live your life to the fullest. So I’m just going to try to live my life in a way that makes them proud.
These past two years have changed me in more ways than I could have ever imagined. I’m learning how to grieve. And I’m also learning how to live. One thing that hasn’t changed is that I still feel big emotions. But isn’t that what life is all about?
I’ve shared this poem before but I gave this to my mom on Mother’s Day a few years ago. It’s a poem about Grandma Sue with Sue the plant as the background. It makes me think about legacy and the qualities we have that are passed down from our parents, and their parents, and their parents. And keeping a piece of them alive inside of me helps a little bit with grieving.