I wish more than anything that I could go back in time and cancel that beach trip.

The idea of planning a vacation at all, even a brief one, is enough to give me a panic attack.

My brain immediately jumps to this game I call “how could someone die.” Because last time, someone did.

Kneeling in the sand next to him until officers drew me away so that the paramedics could have access to him, and then wanting to thank every stranger who did CPR but not being able to bear the trauma on their faces, are memories embedded deep in me.

He was so alive. Then, not.

I was writing my book when he died. Everything about this book is molded by how I changed that day.

(Here’s the pre-order link from my local indie bookstore: https://www.quailridgebooks.com/book/9780062959270 )

“I don’t know what to say.”
“Anything I say is going to be I sufficient.”
“I wish I could do something to change this.”

Truth? All of those phrases are beautiful ones to me. They are honest and empathetic and beautiful.

But every time someone in a COVID related conversation pulls out a line about how God determines when we die and that’s our time, that’s the one hard stop wrong thing to say, even if you’re not talking about my husband.

God’s will?

God wept with me that day and every day since.

It’s a luxury to be able to be detached enough to intellectually frame a death as being the will of God.

Those of us who grieve would want nothing to do with that sort of God, and it can only be a comfort to others because it wasn’t their loved one in the sand.