Goodbye, Mom—Hello, Teenager: When Grief and Joy Share a Morning

Grief doesn’t come with a manual. It doesn’t show up politely or wait until you’ve cleared your calendar. It walks in, throws your life into chaos, and demands that you carry on anyway.

My mother, Cheryl, passed away recently.

She was everything a mom should be—strong, stubborn, hilarious when she didn’t mean to be, and deeply devoted to her family. But above all, she adored Spencer. That boy was the moon to her stars. Even as her body betrayed her, even when the words became fewer, her eyes would still light up when he walked in the room—usually with unbrushed hair and questionable hygiene—but always with love.

Watching someone you love slowly fade over the course of months is brutal. It’s a long goodbye filled with tiny griefs. You mourn the things you’ve lost—her voice, her energy, the little quirks that made her her—even before she’s gone. And you try to be strong. Because there’s laundry. There are school pickups. There are dinners to be made and birthdays to plan.

And there’s Spencer, needing his mom to keep it together while he tries to understand what goodbye really means.

The call came at 2:20 a.m. I knew before I even picked up.

Spencer and I were there with her the night before she passed, sitting at her bedside in the nursing home, holding her hand, talking to her—even though she was already deep in that haunting hospice stare. We knew what was coming. Leaving her that night, knowing it would likely be the last time Spencer saw her, was a gut-punch I wasn’t ready for. When the call came at 2:20 a.m., I already knew before I picked up the phone. She passed peacefully, and even though we weren’t there for the final moment, our love had been with her until the very end. It was one of the hardest, most beautiful, and bittersweet experiences of my life—a memory etched in both pain and quiet grace. It was an honor to be there, but also a heartbreak I’ll carry always.

And as life cruelly (and maybe kindly) insists on continuing, the morning she passed, was Spencer’s 13th birthday.

I had to wake him up that morning to tell him. His eyes blinked open, and before I could even get the words out fully, he looked at me and asked, "Are you okay?" Then he threw his arms around my neck, and I just cried. I cried right there, holding my boy—my sweet, stinky, beautiful boy—while the world shifted beneath our feet. But I had to dry those tears. Because breakfast still had to be made. Because somehow, the world keeps turning even when your heart feels like it’s cracked wide open.

So I carried on and made breakfast. Gifts were opened. We cried. And then—we laughed. We talked about Granny and how she’d whisper, “He’s my favorite” like it was a state secret.

We remembered the good things. We let the joy coexist with the sadness. And when he hugged me—still half asleep, a little smelly—I hugged him like he was the last soft thing on Earth.

Later that day, I hid in my room to finally fall apart, and Scott—my chaotic, woodshop-destroying, always-doing-it-wrong husband—was solid. He didn’t say anything profound. He didn’t try to fix it. He just rubbed my back as I cried and let me be broken for a moment.

While we plan the celebration of her life, we hold tight to the memories—the good, the complicated, the funny. We cry. We laugh. And we remind ourselves that grief is not the absence of love—it’s the undeniable proof that it existed deeply, fiercely, and forever.

This blog isn’t just about chaos and comedy. It’s about real life. And sometimes, that means standing in the middle of your kitchen with mascara running down your face, flipping pancakes while your heart is breaking—and somehow still managing to laugh.

Because love like hers doesn’t end. It lives in us. In our stories. In our hugs. In the strength we find when we think we have none left.

We learn to live with the ache. We learn to carry on.

And above all, we learn to love strong.

In loving memory of Cheryl — your love was fierce, your laugh unforgettable, and your impact immeasurable. We carry you with us in every story, every smile, and every messy, beautiful moment of this life you helped shape.