On Grief and Grieving-April Continued

April 17, 2026

Morning Reflections — 5:18 AM

The night unfolded in segments once again. first the recliner, where sleep came early around 8 PM, only to release me at 1:30 AM. From there, the couch offered a brief refuge, a blanket and pillow standing in for the comfort of bed, but even that arrangement proved temporary. By 5 AM, the restlessness returned, a quiet reminder that this is still a body in negotiation with something new.

This added equipment I now carry brings with it a strange duality. The sharp, relentless pain that once accompanied even the simplest act has eased, thankfully, mercifully. Yet in its place is a persistent discomfort, an irritation that never quite fades. Not unbearable, but ever-present. A trade-off, perhaps, but one that i apparently have to live with, at least for now.

The conversation with the visiting nurse lingers in my mind. His caution about sleeping in bed, about the risk of twisting, turning, and unintentionally creating a problem, felt both reasonable and frustrating. I know myself well enough to understand he’s right. Still, there’s something about being kept from one’s own bed that feels like a small but meaningful loss. So, for now, the recliner remains my station, and the couch, a brief experiment.

Outside, the morning waits in quiet stillness. At 57°, the air is mild for this hour, the sky scattered with stars that flicker through the darkness. It’s too early to read the clouds, but the forecast promises a day that leans toward kindness, 74°, with sun and passing clouds. Not a bad offering.

There’s something else ahead that lifts the spirit. A call earlier this week from my oldest grandson in North Carolina, he and his girlfriend are coming into town for a hockey playoff game and will be staying a couple of days. I’m genuinely looking forward to seeing them. At the same time, there’s a quiet concern about how much I’ll be able to do, meals, hosting, the simple act of keeping up, given this lingering fatigue and the constant awareness of discomfort. I suppose we’ll find that balance when the time comes.

Last night brought a welcome moment of ease. My daughter, her husband, and my nearby grandson arrived with pizza and salad, simple, generous, and exactly what the evening needed. Good food, good company, and conversation that drifted easily. Those moments matter more now. They settle something deeper.

Earlier in the day, a small culinary experiment turned into something unexpectedly special. A bag of Anjou pears became the starting point, poached gently, then paired with a sauce built from the reduced poaching liquid, white wine, cinnamon, nutmeg, and sugar. Then, almost on a whim, a splash of Coca-Cola found its way in. Unconventional, perhaps, but the result was rich, layered, and surprisingly refined. Served with puff pastry, vanilla bean ice cream, and fresh whipped cream, it became something more than dessert, it became an experience.

Judging by my grandson’s reaction, three helpings and the declaration that he had “died and gone to heaven”, I’d say it was a success.

Moments like that remind me that even in the midst of discomfort, fatigue, and adjustment, there are still small triumphs. Still sweetness. Still reasons to pause and appreciate what unfolds in front of us.

Even when the night comes in fragments and rest feels borrowed rather than given, the day still finds its way in, carrying with it quiet gifts: a shared meal, a familiar voice, the simple joy of creating something beautiful. In those moments, however brief, life gently reassures us, it hasn’t forgotten how to feel whole.

Since the sun won’t be rising or close to an hour, I’m thinking maybe I might whip up a batch or two of cookies for my guests who will be arriving later today.

I have the Mrs. Fields chocolate chip cookie recipe, which I make quite often and may very well make today, but as I recall, I remember my oldest grandson really liking peanut butter cookies when he was much younger so perhaps they will become part of the days tasks as well.

This should be sufficient for the time we spend together with a few left over, for the trip home...

The sky is offering no resistance this morning. No clouds to soften it, no barriers to hold it back, just a clear, uninterrupted transition from night into day. The horizon brightens with quiet confidence, as if it knows exactly what it’s doing and sees no need to rush or struggle to get there.

Standing at the door, watching it unfold, I can feel that same sense beginning to settle in. Not overwhelming, not forced, just a gentle shift in direction. A reminder that sometimes the best starts don’t come with intensity, but with clarity.

“Some mornings don’t ask for strength, only that we notice they’ve already begun in our favor.”

April 18, 2026

Morning Brew & Reflections

It’s 6:09 AM on Saturday morning, April 18, and I’ve been awake since 4:00 AM, after spending yet another somewhat restless night trying to sleep in the recliner.

As I sat in the darkness, looking through the living room, past the dining room, and out toward the patio doors into the night, I found myself feeling more emotional than I have in quite some time. That’s not to say the emotional days have ever really left me… they haven’t. But this morning felt different.

There was a heaviness to it.

Even after Fran’s passing, I would still go to bed at night with the full realization that she was no longer there… yet somehow, in my mind, she still was. There was a comfort in that, something I could hold onto, even if only in thought.

Now, with everything that’s been going on, I can’t even sleep in my own bed anymore, and it’s really starting to wear on me. That loss of something so simple, so familiar, feels like another piece quietly slipping away.

As the first signs of daylight began to reveal themselves, I stood there watching the horizon. The sky offered no dramatic display this morning, no bold colors, no fiery entrance. Instead, it unfolded slowly… gently… almost cautiously.

“Some days don’t ask us to move on…only to move forward… carrying what we love with us.”

And as I watched, the tears came...

More than I’ve allowed myself in quite some time.

I don’t know what triggered it. I can’t point to a single thought or moment that brought it on. It just… surfaced.

By 6:34 AM, I found myself sitting at the table on the deck, just outside the patio doors, now open to let the cool morning air drift into the house. There was something comforting about that. the quiet, the stillness, the soft movement of air.

I felt thankful… perhaps more so than usual… that I had the chance to witness the sunrise today.

It was subtle. Slow to reveal itself. Not overwhelming, but deeply beautiful in its own quiet way.

Even though it offered some sense of comfort… the emotional pain I’m experiencing didn’t disappear. It eased, perhaps… but it remained.

Later today, my oldest grandson, who lives in North Carolina, is coming to visit. He arrived in town last night and spent the evening with his other grandparents. Around lunchtime, he’ll be heading here to spend the afternoon. We’ll have dinner together, and later he and his girlfriend will head into Pittsburgh for a hockey playoff game.

After the game, they’ll return here for the night, and in the morning, after breakfast, they’ll be heading back.

I’m looking forward to seeing him. I truly am. I know his visit will be a pleasant one.

But somehow… it just won’t be the same.

Fran would have been beside herself with excitement knowing he was coming. She would have filled this house with a kind of energy that made moments like this feel complete.

And that’s what makes today a little heavier.

Not his presence…but her absence within it.

I know things will never be the same. I understand that.

I just can’t seem to bring myself to accept it.

This morning’s sunrise didn’t rush to comfort me. It arrived slowly, as if it understood the weight I was carrying.

Even in its beauty, the ache remained…but for a moment, they existed side by side.

Perhaps that’s what this day is asking of me—not to let go…but to gently carry both.

April 19, 2026

Evening Reflection

It’s 6:53 PM on Saturday, April 19, and I’ve just awakened from what turned out to be an unexpectedly long nap, one that began somewhere around 10:30 this morning, shortly after my grandson, his girlfriend, my daughter, and my son-in-law left following breakfast.

To say that I am exhausted would be an understatement.

After a week of preparing for this weekend, shopping, cooking, cleaning, organizing, my body feels completely drained. Tired. Weak. Borderline nonfunctional, and perhaps today, more than any other, it finally decided it had reached its limit.

Earlier in the week, my grandson called to ask if he and his girlfriend could stay with me while they were in town for a Penguins playoff game. Of course, I welcomed them without hesitation. The plan, as I understood it, was that they would arrive Friday evening.

That plan changed.

They decided instead to stay Friday night with his other grandparents and come to my house on Saturday after lunch. I didn’t make an issue of it, though I had already begun preparing food and making arrangements with their original plan in mind. It wasn’t anger I felt, just a quiet disappointment that things had shifted without any notice.

When they arrived Saturday afternoon, one of the first questions asked was, “What do you have to eat?”

That caught me a bit off guard.

I had assumed they would have eaten lunch before arriving, but that wasn’t the case. So I stepped back into the kitchen and prepared something for them.

Knowing the game wasn’t until 8 PM, I planned dinner for around 4:00 or 4:30, plenty of time, I thought, for them to eat, then head into Pittsburgh, find parking, and make their way to the arena without stress.

That plan changed as well.

After preparing sixteen pieces of fried chicken, a large batch of coleslaw, pepper dip, and French fries, I was told they were leaving around 3 PM to grab something to eat in the city before the game.

That one hit a little harder.

With all that food prepared and no realistic way for me to use it, I invited my daughter and son-in-law over for dinner. We shared a good meal, some conversation, and for a while, things felt balanced again.

Later that evening, after my grandson had left for the game, I received a text asking if I could prepare sandwiches for them when they returned.

That was the moment I reached my limit.

When they got back and asked about food, I reminded him of everything that had already been prepared earlier in the day and told him, gently but firmly, that I was done for the day. If he was hungry, he knew where the refrigerator was and was more than welcome to help himself.

And he did.

Before heading to bed, he asked if I would be making breakfast in the morning.

I told him I would, and asked what he’d like

.

“Surprise me,” he said. “You make the best breakfast.”

So I did what I always do.

I prepared a large tray of Baked French toast with praline topping, along with bacon, orange juice, and a spread of cookies I had baked earlier in the week. I had also made eggs Benedict with crab cakes and hollandaise sauce for those who would enjoy it.

Breakfast was shared, conversation was had, and by around 10:00 or 10:30, they were on their way back home.

I asked him to be careful and to let me know when they arrived.

After they left, I sat down in my chair, just for a moment, and that moment became the entire day.

Aside from getting up briefly a couple of times, I slept straight through until early evening.

My body had simply shut things down.

It’s now 8:52 PM, and as I sit here with the only light in the room coming from the television, my thoughts have drifted back over the day… and back to Fran.

I can’t help but think how much she would have enjoyed seeing our grandson. How she would have lit up just knowing he was here, regardless of how long he stayed or how the plans unfolded.

I can almost hear her now, gently reminding me...

“At least he made the effort. He came. And he brought someone special in his life to share it with you.”

That was Fran.

She didn’t dwell on what didn’t go as planned. She embraced what was.

Not because everything was always perfect… but because she chose to meet life where it stood, rather than where she wished it had been.

I, on the other hand, sometimes get caught in the moment.

I let frustration creep in. I dwell on what didn’t happen instead of what did. I hold onto things that, in the grand scheme, probably don’t deserve that much space.

Tonight, sitting here thinking about it, I feel a lot of guilt for allowing myself to get upset over things that Fran would have simply let pass.

She was a very special person, to everyone who knew her.

But most of all to her children and grandchildren.

They were everything to her.

Maybe that’s what I need to hold onto tonight.

Not what didn’t go according to plan…but the simple truth that he was here.

I miss her more than I can put into words.

In moments like this, when I find myself searching for her voice, her perspective, her quiet way of setting things right… I’m left wondering how I’m ever going to truly overcome her loss.

There are moments when the body speaks in ways the mind has long ignored.

Today was one of those moments.

Somewhere between the effort and the expectation…between what was planned and what unfolded…there came a quiet realization:

I cannot continue at the pace I once did.

Perhaps just as importantly…

I cannot continue to see things only through my own lens.

Tonight, I try, however imperfectly, to see this day the way Fran might have seen it.

Not for what it lacked…but for what it quietly offered.

And maybe in doing so…I keep a small part of her still guiding me forward.

April 20, 2026

Morning Brew & Reflections

It’s 6:20 AM on a Monday morning, and it’s been another long night.

Sleep came in fragments, if it came at all. Every hour or so I found myself waking, shifting, trying to find some position that might offer comfort, only to realize that comfort just wasn’t part of the equation. The recliner, once again, served its purpose… but not much more than that.

Outside, the day isn’t offering much encouragement.

The sky is completely gray. Thick, heavy clouds have taken hold, leaving no hint of the sun behind them. A cold, blustery 35 degrees only adds to the weight of it all. Not exactly the kind of morning you hope for when you’re already running on empty.

This past weekend took more out of me than I expected.

Not a typical weekend, at least not the kind I used to handle without a second thought. My body made that very clear. It’s starting to speak a little louder these days, reminding me that things have changed… and that I can’t do what I once did without consequence.

That realization sits heavy.

Even the small routines felt like too much this morning. I didn’t prep the coffee last night like I always do. Today’s cup is yesterday’s leftovers, good enough, I suppose, but a quiet reminder that even the simplest habits can slip when energy runs low.

There are things that need to be done.

Beds to strip, linens to wash, the house to put back in order after having my grandson and his girlfriend here. None of it urgent… but all of it waiting, and right now, even thinking about where to begin feels like more than I can manage.

So for the moment, I sit.

Coffee in hand. Eyes drifting between the room and that gray horizon. Letting the morning be what it is.

And in the spaces between thoughts, Fran is there.

She always is.

Last night, in those quiet stretches between sleep, my mind kept circling back, trying once again to make sense of something I know can’t be explained. I understand the idea of the circle of life. I’ve heard it, seen it, lived around it my entire life.

But understanding something… and accepting it…are two very different things,

and I’m not sure acceptance is something I’ll ever fully reach.

Especially on mornings like this.

Cold. Gray. Still.

The kind of day where the weight of everything feels just a little heavier… and the absence just a little more present.

Maybe today isn’t about getting everything done. Maybe it isn’t even about finding answers.

Maybe it’s just about getting through the hours as they come, one small moment at a time.

Somewhere behind those clouds…whether I can see it or not…the sun is still there.

Just like her.

It’s now 6:38 AM, and as I peer through the patio doors, that wall of gray continues to hold its ground. I know the sun is there. Somewhere behind it all, it has already crested the horizon, doing what it always does, whether we see it or not.

But this morning… it’s choosing to remain hidden.

When I opened the door to take a photograph, the air hit me in a way I wasn’t quite prepared for. A cold, damp chill, sharp enough to grab hold and remind me that this day isn’t going to ease in gently.

It was the kind of cold that doesn’t ask permission. The kind that tells you, plain and simple, it’s time to get moving.

Standing there for a moment, camera in hand, I took it all in.

The layered clouds, shifting but going nowhere. The faintest glow behind them, trying, maybe, to push through. The trees, still holding onto that early spring promise, despite everything the morning is throwing at them.

And me… caught somewhere in between.

Part of me wanting to retreat back inside, to the warmth, to the recliner, to whatever comfort I can manage. Another part knowing that, like it or not, the day has already begun.

There’s something about mornings like this.

They don’t inspire. They don’t invite. They don’t offer much in the way of encouragement.

But they do one thing very clearly...

They remind you that even when nothing feels right…the day still moves forward.

Maybe today isn’t about chasing the sun.

Maybe it’s about trusting that it’s there, even when all you can see is gray.

And maybe that’s enough…for now.

It’s 7:54 AM, and as I continue my watch through the patio doors, the morning just keeps getting better.

What began earlier as uncertainty, gray skies, hesitation, and a quiet sense of disappointment, has slowly given way to something far more hopeful. The sun has finally risen above the clouds, stepping into its role without hesitation, doing what it does best. It brings warmth, not only to the body, but to the mind… and to the heart.

And in that warmth, I can’t help but feel her.

Fran had a way of doing exactly this. No matter how heavy things felt, no matter how clouded a moment might have been, she had this quiet ability to let the light in. Not all at once. Not forcefully. Just enough… just when it was needed.

Standing here now, watching the sun break through, it feels familiar. Like something I’ve seen before, not just in the sky, but in her.

There’s something about that first breakthrough of light.It doesn’t rush. It doesn’t demand attention. It simply arrives… gently, faithfully… and changes everything.

And maybe that’s where she still lives now.

In these moments. In the warmth that finds me when I least expect it. In the quiet reminders that things can still turn, still improve, still become something more than what they first appeared to be.

Things are looking up… far more than I had anticipated when I first stood here at 5 AM.

And maybe that’s her way of reminding me...

That even behind the heaviest clouds, the light hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s just waiting for the right moment to show itself again.