Eighteen years ago, I was sitting on a commercial airplane heading home for the absolute saddest reason a mother could ever fathom. My beautiful, vibrant, only daughter had passed away suddenly in a horrific car accident, and tragically, my young, sweet grandson had been in the car with her.
I had received the world-shattering news only the day before. I was traveling back to my empty hometown to attend their memorial service and to begin the excruciatingly painful work of saying my final goodbyes.
You don’t really feel anything in traumatic moments like that. You just move. Step by heavy step. Hour by hour. It feels exactly like walking through a fog so thick and suffocating that even the simplest things—like breathing or tying your shoes—feel like monumental tasks.
I clearly remember staring blankly out the window of the plane without truly seeing a single thing. The clouds outside looked soft and beautiful, but their beauty couldn’t reach me in the dark place I was in. Inside, I felt completely hollow. It was as if a vital piece of my soul had been carefully scooped out and permanently packed away.
I remember thinking, with a heavy heart, that no parent or grandparent should ever be forced to plan a service like the one waiting for me at home. But as I would soon find out, sometimes life asks much more of us than we know how to give.
And it was about to ask something monumental of me.
