On Grief and Grieving February 2026

February 1, 2026

A Full Day, The Good Kind of Tired

I was up early again this morning, too early, really, and I couldn’t help noticing the same pattern that’s been hanging around for a while now: sleep that comes in pieces instead of one solid stretch. Between short nights and long naps, it probably adds up, but it doesn’t always feel like it adds up.

By late morning I had plans for brunch with my sister-in-law, and I knew I’d better call and remind her, because she’s been telling me she’s become forgetful. I picked her up and we went out around 11:00 AM. I expected it to be enjoyable, and it was, to a degree, but the day carried an emotional weight that made it more draining than I would’ve liked.

At some point during the day I also spoke with my son in Camden County, North Carolina, to see how the winter storm treated them. He told me they got about 6 to 8 inches of snow, but it wasn’t the kind that lays down evenly and stays put. The wind worked it over pretty hard, two-foot-plus drifts in some areas, while other spots were nearly bare. He said you could actually see blades of grass popping up through the snow, which tells you everything you need to know about how uneven it was.

When I got home later, I had one of those unexpected little moments that ends up meaning more than you’d think. As I was pulling into the garage, I noticed someone walking up the street, it turned out to be Clay, Neal’s brother. We stood there in the cold and talked for fifteen or twenty minutes, just catching up. He told me he’d finally found an apartment in the Pittsburgh area and had signed a lease a couple of days ago. He’ll be moving out of Neal’s place in May. Before he left, we talked about getting together sometime soon for dinner, and it felt good, simple, normal, and friendly.

Earlier in the day I’d started preparing bread, actually a triple batch, and I was still deciding when I’d bake it off. My daughter had invited me over for dinner at 6:00 PM, so I’d been thinking about baking a couple loaves in the afternoon to bring along. I’ve been using my enamel cast-iron Dutch oven, and recently started using those silicone slings rated to 500°, which make transferring the dough and lifting the bread out so much easier. The plan was to bakeone for home, and one to take with me, and finish the rest tomorrow, unless I had more energy than I expected.

Needless to say, after brunch, a bit of grocery shopping, in an unbelievably crowded environment, and a trip to the pharmacy, by the time I returned home I was in no condition to bake a mud pie, let alone bread.

Dinner at my daughter’s turned out to be exactly what I needed: a wonderful meal and even better conversation with my daughter, my son-in-law, and my grandson. After we ate, they insisted on doing the birthday celebration, nothing fancy, just a donut with a candle, but it hit me in that good way. They sang happy birthday and handed me a small bag full of scratch off lottery tickets. I keep telling them not to buy things for me because there isn’t anything I truly need, at least nothing that can be purchased, but it was such a kind, generous, thoughtful gesture that all I could really do was accept it and appreciate it.

And as if the night needed one more layer of familiar, the dog committee convened the moment I walked through the door.

Gabe, the golden retriever, is the kind of creature you can’t help but be softened by. He’s getting older now, and I can see it in the slower movements and the gray that wasn’t there before. Still, every time he sees me, his tail wagging and sad eyes and that gentle insistence, running for a toy, trying to pull me into a game like he’s inviting me to be part of his world for a few minutes. There’s something about a dog like Gabe that hits deeper than it should. Maybe because there’s no performance in it. No agenda. Just recognition. Just love. In a life where time keeps taking things away, a moment like that feels like a small mercy.

And then there’s Snowy, tiny enough to fit comfortably in my two hands, but convinced she’s the head of household security. She barks like she’s taking on a bear and I’m the bear. It’s a full David-and-Goliath production every time I walk in: she parks herself and turns on the siren, determined to prove she’s ten feet tall. My son-in-law told me she’s mostly Maltese with a bit of poodle, which somehow makes the whole thing even funnier, this little puffball of attitude acting like she’s defending the homestead from invasion.

They joked tonight that they were going to give me Snowy for my birthday, and I told them, lovingly, sincerely, and without hesitation, that there was a snowball’s chance in hell of that happening. I do love dogs. I’ve had my own. But that little witch and I are better as long-distance acquaintances.

By the time I got home tonight, I felt that particular kind of tired that isn’t just physical. The day wasn’t “busy” in the usual sense, but it drained me anyway, brunch, emotions, conversation, family, and everything underneath it. I flipped on the TV and saw the Grammy Awards were on. I figured I’d make a few entries for the blog first, then watch for a while… although if history repeats itself, I’ll probably fall asleep before I see much of it.

Still, it was a full day. And in its own way, it was the good kind of full.

February 2, 2026

It’s 6:45 AM on Monday, February 2, Groundhog Day, the day the fat rat in southwestern Pennsylvania supposedly gives us a hint about what comes next: six more weeks of winter or an early spring. If I’m putting money on it, I’m not betting on an early spring. I’m betting on six more weeks of winter… maybe more.

It’s 7°F outside right now. Today’s high is only expected to reach 26°F, but they’re calling for sunshine until about 2 or 3 PM, and I’ll take that gladly.

Night is slowly fading, and the new day is easing its way above the horizon. The sky has that beautiful cerulean blue look, quiet, clean, awake, with just a whisper of orange laid across the horizon line. It’s the kind of start that promises something, even if it doesn’t guarantee it. So for now, things are looking good for the morning light show… and like always, only time will tell.

By the time my third cup of coffee is halfway gone, I’m usually standing in the same place—at the patio doors—looking out at the day like it’s a blank page I’m supposed to fill with something that makes sense.

I crawled out of bed around 5:45 AM, and now I’m trying to stitch together an agenda. Bread is non-negotiable: four loaves are fermenting in the refrigerator, patiently doing their thing, waiting on me to catch up.

Then there’s the pastry. Last night at dinner my grandson brought it up several times—how much he liked the strawberry and cream cheese braid I made a couple of days ago. Compliments like that have a way of turning into plans. Maybe I’ll make another one. Maybe I’ll let the day decide, and somewhere in the background, there’s the thing I’m hoping for but trying not to expect: a call from the doctor about the specialist in Pittsburgh. I’d like to hear something today. I’m just not betting on it, history hasn’t exactly been on their side when it comes to urgency.

It’s 6:58 AM and as I gaze out the patio door and look up, things are looking up

It’s 6:58 AM, and as I gaze out the patio doors and look up, it feels like, maybe for once, things are looking up too. The sky is a deep winter blue, fading lighter as it nears the horizon, where a thin band of orange hangs on like a quiet invitation. The trees stand there in silhouette, still and patient, as if they’ve seen this exact moment a thousand times and still don’t take it for granted.

The sky doesn’t hesitate, blue like glass overhead, warming to gold at the horizon—like the day is saying, start here… and keep going.

This morning’s sunrise is sending a message, and it’s crystal clear. The world feels sharpened, clean edges, bare branches, a ribbon of fire at the horizon, like winter itself paused long enough to remind me there’s still light, even when everything else looks stripped down.

The trees stand like sentinels in silhouette, the horizon lit in a thin, determined line, quiet proof that something new always arrives, whether I feel ready for it or not.

6:30 PM — A House That Smelled Like a Bakery All Day

It’s 6:30 PM, and I honestly haven’t had the chance to sit down for more than a minute since I climbed out of bed this morning.

I started the day the way I’ve been starting a lot of days lately, by chasing that elusive muffin dome. I made another batch, hoping this time I’d coax a little more rise out of them, the “proverbial dome,” if you will. I ended up with about ten muffins total: six blueberry and four cranberry-orange, all finished with streusel.

“Today’s first mission: chase the elusive muffin dome. Blueberry and cranberry-orange—both wearing their streusel like a winter coat.”

Once the muffins were out of the way, I turned my attention to the bread that had been fermenting in the refrigerator since yesterday afternoon. Four loaves in all: one plain, one with everything-bagel topping, and two with sesame seeds.

“Proof that patience turns into something you can slice: today’s bread lineup cooling on the rack.”

The aromas in the house today were hovering somewhere between ridiculous and amazing, the kind of smell that makes you pause in the hallway for no reason other than to take it in.

After the bread, I decided I needed to use up the strawberries and that cream cheese filling I’d prepared on Saturday. The fact that my grandson mentioned, more than once last night, how much he liked the puff pastry didn’t exactly steer me away from that decision. So I made another round, and just like that, the baking day kept rolling.

“Strawberry and cream cheese—folded, sealed, and baked until the kitchen starts whispering you did the right thing.”

“A full day of flour, butter, yeast, and momentum, proof that some days don’t need an agenda as much as they need a warm oven.” I didn’t really stop cooking and baking until around 5:30 PM.

Fortunately, when Bob was here on Saturday, he brought me a couple of stuffed peppers, one of those small kindnesses that becomes a perfect rescue on a day like today. That worked out very conveniently this evening because it meant I didn’t have to cook dinner at all. I popped one pepper in the microwave, toasted a couple pieces of the bread I made today, and that was more than enough.

Now I’m at the point where I can feel the recliner pulling me in like gravity. Not exactly by choice, but I know how this goes: once I sit down, that will likely be the end of the road for at least an hour, probably more.

I’d still like to get a few entries down for the blog before turning in tonight… but first I think I need a nap, something to reset the system before I try to put words to the day.

10:24 PM — The Recliner Isn’t Always Just a Recliner

It’s 10:24 PM, and, just as I expected, the “short encounter” with the recliner turned into something far from short.

I woke up around 9:30, cleaned up a few dishes, and prepped the coffee for tomorrow morning. Now I’m trying to add a few lines to the blog for the day.

But waking up wasn’t simple. It was one of those moments where, for a brief stretch of time, I came up out of sleep confused, completely untethered. For a few seconds I had lost all track of where I was in the story, and I found myself scanning the room for Fran, wondering where she could be. Why didn’t I hear the oxygen concentrator running? Why wasn’t she on the couch? Where was her walker?

It only took a few seconds to come back to reality, but those seconds carry a weight that doesn’t disappear just because I’m awake. The realization hits, and the room goes quiet in a way that feels almost physical. Then, just like that, the depression settles back in, familiar, heavy, and unwanted.

I try my best to deal with it all, but it continues to be extremely difficult. Lately it’s becoming very apparent that the frigid weather outside, the shortness of the daylight, and the quietness in this house don’t help much either.

February 2. 2026

Tuesday Morning, February 3 — When Grief Opens a Door

It’s 9:08 AM on Tuesday, February 3, and I just finished sending a text to Fran’s cousin Frank in Ohio. His wife passed away last night.

I didn’t see his message until I got out of bed around 7:00 AM, and even though she has"t been doing well for quite some time, hearing that she had passed still landed like a shock, the kind that makes you sit still for a moment, staring at nothing, trying to understand how a life can be here one day and gone the next.

Frank has always been kind to me and to Fran, good, steady, kind, from the very beginning of our marriage. Like so many extended family relationships, we never had the opportunity to spend as much time together through the years as we might have liked. We were all busy doing what we had to do to make it through life, and the years have a way of slipping past while you’re focused on the daily grind.

But when Fran passed, something changed. Frank opened a line of communication between us that I didn’t realize I needed as much as I did. In a strange way, grief gave us a shared language, two people standing on the same shoreline of loss, speaking about things no one ever wants to talk about… until you’re forced to.

This morning, I answered him as honestly as I could. I told him there are no words that can express how sorry I am. I told him I know what he’s going through, not in the exact same way, because no two losses are identical, but in the way that matters: the disbelief, the emptiness, the questions that come rushing in with no place to land.

I told him the truth too, that I don’t have all the answers, because I’m still searching for answers myself. Even when we know in advance what the eventual outcome will be, there is simply no way to prepare for it. There’s no rehearsal for that moment when the world changes in a single sentence.

I didn’t sugarcoat it, because there’s no honest way to do that. Grief is a whole new and unexplored kind of sadness, grief, and pain, something you could never have imagined possible until you’re living inside it. You don’t just “get over it.” You wake up each day and try to learn how to carry a reality you never asked for.

A while back Frank had asked if, when the time came, he could stay at my house. So I reminded him this morning: he’s welcome here. As long as he needs. Because sometimes the most meaningful help isn’t advice or explanations, sometimes it’s simply a place to land. A chair at the table. A pot of coffee. A quiet house where you don’t have to be alone with the walls closing in.

At 9:41 AM, I found myself sitting at the back patio door, still carrying the weight of the news, still feeling sorrowful, and looking out at a sky that matched the moment.

“For now, the pale light will have to be enough to hold on to.”

The sun seems to be making a desperate attempt to find its way through slate-gray cloud cover. Not bright. Not triumphant. Just a pale, muted glow pressing against the overcast, refusing to disappear completely.

It struck me how grief can do the same thing. It blocks out the familiar light. It changes the shape of your day. It rearranges your heart. But somehow, even in all that heaviness, something in us still tries, quietly, stubbornly, to keep going, to reach for a little warmth, to show up for someone else the best we can.

I wish Frank didn’t have to walk this road. I know he does.

So today, all I can do is what I’ve learned to do since Fran passed: be honest, be present, and keep a light on for someone who just stepped into the dark.