The Q life Grief Journey

Walking with love after loss.

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  • The Day You Said Goodbye

    Saturdays had always been our day. The sirens would sound at noon, and right on cue, Quinten and Lenny would walk across the driveway from his cabin to our front door. It was a small tradition, comforting and familiar.

    But on Saturday, July 12th, 2025, the moment I saw Quinten’s face, I knew something was different. Something was wrong.

    He stood in the doorway, tired and hurting, and said quietly,
    “I can’t walk over again. It’s time for the hospital bed, Momma.”

    We had talked about this moment before, the moment he would ask. He told me that when it was truly the end, he would tell me, and I would know. And I did. His cabin was only a short walk from our home, but that morning it had become too far.

    I got him settled on the couch and called hospice. The bed would be delivered that day.

    And still, because it was Saturday, we carried on with family dinner, even though every breath felt heavier. Kevin and Terra arrived with little Lincoln. James took Kevin outside to burn boxes in the burn barrel, his way of bracing himself for what was coming.

    Quinten noticed James wasn’t inside. He wanted to see him. He tried to stand up to go out to the porch, but the moment he rose, he collapsed to the floor in pain. I screamed for James, and somehow, with strength we didn’t know we had, he and I got Quinten back onto the couch.

    I checked him for injuries. Nothing appeared broken. But the fall, the shaking hands, the confusion in his eyes… deep down, I knew. The cancer had likely reached his brain.

    A little later, Quinten asked again to sit on the porch. He wanted to watch James and Kevin burn boxes. With Terra holding the door and me steadying him, we got him to James’s chair outside. His hands trembled harder than ever.

    He looked at Terra and said the words he had never said out loud before:
    “I’m dying.”
    And she said softly, “I know, Quinten… and I’m sorry.”

    He grew tired, so we helped him to our bedroom so he could rest in our bed. I asked whether he wanted me to call his sister. Whitney hadn’t planned to come that day; she was very pregnant, swollen, and tired. But Quinten said yes. When I reached for my phone, he picked up his own instead. With his shaking hands and a little help from me, he called her.

    “Whit… I fell down… and I’m dying. Can you come see me?”

    She cried. She asked if it was time. I told her yes.
    She and Jared rushed over.

    Inside, we kept cooking dinner: James’s BBQ ribs, baked beans, and my potato salad. I was baking chocolate chip cookies for dessert, Quinten’s favorite.

    Whitney arrived and immediately climbed into our bed beside Quinten. Jared sat in a folding chair at his side. Whitney fed her brother what would be his last meal. I gave him a spoonful of cookie dough. He smiled for that.

    Then Quinten began calling for us one by one.
    He told James he wouldn’t make the beach trip that was three weeks away. James told him that it was okay and that we would handle everything.
    He called for me, asking the hardest question a mother can hear:
    “Momma… do I have your permission to die?”

    And because I loved him, because I would never hold him back from peace, I told him yes, that he had my permission. I showed him the shirt I had bought for him to be buried in.
    “Good job, Mom,” he whispered.

    He grew tired, drifting in and out. Whitney and Jared left with my promise to keep them updated.

    We were still waiting for the hospital bed. So James and Kevin moved the couch to the dining room to make space. When the bed arrived, the deliveryman set it up quickly.

    Then came the hardest part: getting Quinten from our bed to the hospital bed in the living room. James and Kevin lifted him, pushing their strength past what any of us should have had, while I steadied and guided.

    “Dig deep, Quinten,” James told him. “The deepest.”

    And he did. He always did.

    When they got him settled, Lenny jumped right into the bed with him, curling beside him the way he always had. We tucked Quinten in, raised the side rails, and he went right to sleep.

    I slept in the living room with him that night, in James’s recliner. Somewhere around 3 a.m., he woke and asked where his phone was. I told him it was in my bedroom, turned off.
    “Okay, good,” he said, and drifted back to sleep.

    It was one of the last nights he would ever spend in our home as the son I could still reach.

    But it was the night he was surrounded by all the love he ever needed and the night we began letting him go, one breath at a time.

  • How Grief Can Teach Us About Love and Healing

    Quinten, 

    I don’t know where you are now, but I know where you are not.

    You are not in pain.

    You are not tired.

    You are not fighting.

    And that alone brings me a kind of peace I didn’t know I could hold.

    You were always my baby brother.

    Not because you were small, but because you were gentle in a world that is not.

    Because your heart stayed soft even when your body had to be brave.

    I miss you in ways that don’t have words.

    I miss the way you made things feel lighter just by being there.

    I miss the version of myself that existed when you were still here, the one who didn’t know yet what this kind of loss felt like.

    You left in the middle of things.

    In the middle of our lives.

    In the middle of plans and jokes and futures we assumed we had.

    And yet… somehow, even in leaving, you gave us something.

    You taught me about life.

    About love.

    About forgiveness.

    You lived wild and free, fully, loudly, honestly.

    Even while you were fighting for your life, you were still living it.

    Laughing. Loving. Showing up. Choosing joy anyway.

    You didn’t just endure, you embodied what it means to be alive.

    And the greatest gift you gave me was this:

    You taught me how to forgive our mom.

    Because of you, the walls came down.

    Because of you, my heart softened.

    Because of you, our family healed in places I didn’t think could heal.

    Because of you, my relationship with her was restored.

    She is in my life now.

    She is in her grandson’s life now.

    And that is beautiful.

    That is a miracle.

    And that miracle has your fingerprints all over it.

    I wish you had stayed.

    God, I wish you had stayed.

    But I also know this:

    You gave everything you had while you were here.

    You loved us well.

    You were loved deeply.

    You lived with purpose even when the road was unfair.

    You changed us.

    You changed me.

    I carry you with me now, not behind me, not above me, but within me.

    In the way I love.

    In the way I forgive.

    In the way, I slow down.

    In the way, I notice the beautiful and the fragile.

    You are still part of this family.

    Still part of us.

    Still shaping our lives.

    You are not gone, you are woven into who we are becoming.

    You matter.

    You always did.

    I promise you this:

    You will not be forgotten.

    Not in our stories.

    Not in our laughter.

    Not in the quiet moments when your name drifts through our minds and lands gently in our hearts.

    You are still my brother.

    Still my teacher.

    Still my friend.

    Forever your sister.

    Always loving you.

    Never without you

    Whitney

  • Happy Birthday, My Son

    This Sunday is your birthday, Quinten, and this is the first one where I don’t get to see your face, hear your voice, or wrap my arms around you. I don’t get a phone call, a smile, or a hug that always made your birthdays feel complete.

    And I need you to know how much that hurts.

    Birthdays are supposed to be about celebrating life, but today feels different. It feels quiet. It feels heavy. It feels like the world is acknowledging time moving forward without you, and I’m not sure my heart is ready for that yet.

    I keep thinking about all the birthdays before this one. About you calling me, even before you were sick. About how you never forgot to make time for me in your life. Those memories are both a comfort and a heartbreak today.

    I miss you in ways words can’t fully capture. I miss your laugh. I miss your presence. I miss the way you made everything feel more grounded just by being here. I miss who you were and who you were still becoming.

    Today, I find myself talking to you quietly, telling you all the things I would say if you were here. How proud I am of you. How brave you were. How deeply you are loved. How your life continues to shape mine, even now.

    I wish I could tell you “Happy Birthday” in person.
    I wish I could see you smile.
    I wish this day didn’t carry so much longing.

    But even in your absence, you are still here with me. In my heart. In my memories. In the love that refuses to disappear.

    So today, I honor you.
    I speak your name.
    I hold space for the joy you brought into this world and the ache of missing you.

    Happy Birthday, my son.
    I will carry you with me through every year that comes after this one.

    I love you always, Mom.

  • Looking Back on 2025

    As 2025 came to a close, I found myself looking back at a year I never could have imagined, a year that changed me in ways I am still discovering.

    This was the year I learned how fragile life truly is.
    The year I learned how strong love can be.
    The year I learned what it means to lose a child and still wake up each morning.

    2025 was not a year of milestones or celebrations. It was a year of endurance. Of showing up when my heart wanted to hide. Of learning how to breathe, how to sit with silence, how to live inside a grief that did not ask permission.

    It was the year Quinten went on hospice.
    The year we walked him to the edge of life and stayed with him until the very end.
    The year I learned that loving your child sometimes means letting them go.  The hardest lesson a mother can ever face.

    There were moments in 2025 that will forever be etched into me:
    the quiet days of caregiving,
    the conversations that mattered more than anything else,
    the moments of fear and hope living side by side,
    and the day my world changed forever.

    And then, in August, just one month after Quinten passed away, baby Everett was born.

    His arrival did not erase the grief.
    It did not soften the loss.
    But it placed life and death side by side in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

    Holding Everett for the first time, my heart felt both broken and full. I grieved the uncle he would never know in this world, even as I marveled at the miracle of new life. His tiny breath, his warmth, his quiet presence felt like a reminder that life continues not because we are ready, but because it always does.

    Everett’s birth taught me that grief and love are not opposites. They can exist in the same moment, in the same body, in the same heart. One does not cancel the other. They simply make room for one another.

    This year stripped away everything unnecessary. It clarified what matters and what never did. It taught me that time is not guaranteed, that love is not gentle, and that grief does not move in straight lines.

    2025 also taught me something unexpected: that joy can exist alongside heartbreak. Not loud joy. Not careless joy. But small, tender moments that arrive quietly and remind me that life is still happening around me.

    There were glimpses of warmth, family gathered, grandbabies laughing, shared meals, quiet conversations, moments where Quinten felt close in ways I can’t explain. Those moments did not erase the pain, but they softened it just enough to keep me going.

    Looking back, I don’t see 2025 as a year to be celebrated or forgotten. I see it as a year that reshaped me. A year that demanded more of me than I ever thought I could give and somehow, I did.

    I am not the same person I was at the beginning of 2025.
    I carry more weight.
    More wisdom.
    More tenderness.

    And more love than I knew my heart could hold.

    As I move forward, I do so slowly. Gently. With no expectations of who I should be or how quickly I should heal. I carry Quinten with me, not as a memory that fades, but as a presence that continues to shape my days.

    2025 will always be the year that broke my heart.
    But it will also be the year that showed me how life and loss can exist side by side, how love can stretch across generations, and how even in the deepest sorrow, it does not disappear.

    I walk into 2026 changed, tender, and still loving.
    And that, for now, is enough.

  • Letting Go of Expectations During the First Year of Loss

    The first year after losing someone you love is not a season to master.
    It is a season to survive.

    Yet so often, expectations quietly creep in,  expectations from others, from tradition, from the calendar, and sometimes from ourselves. Expectations to “handle it well.” To show progress. To mark milestones with strength or grace.

    But grief does not move on a timeline.
    And the first year is not the time to demand anything of yourself.

    In that first year, everything is a “first.”
    The first birthday.
    The first Christmas.
    The first New Year’s.
    The first ordinary day when you suddenly realize how long it has been since you last heard their voice.

    Each one carries its own weight. And expecting yourself to experience them calmly, bravely, or beautifully only adds another layer of pain.

    Letting go of expectations means accepting that you will not be the same person you were before loss, and that’s not a failure. It’s a natural response to loving deeply.

    It means allowing plans to change at the last minute.
    Allowing tears to arrive without explanation.
    Allowing joy to show up unexpectedly, and not punishing yourself for it.

    The first year of grief is about listening to your body and your heart. Some days you may feel capable. Other days, simply getting through the day is enough. Both are valid. Both count.

    Letting go of expectations also means releasing the idea that grief should look a certain way. You don’t have to attend every gathering. You don’t have to keep traditions alive if they hurt. You don’t have to explain your choices to anyone.

    Grief asks for honesty, not performance.

    There may be pressure to “honor” your loved one in visible ways, through celebrations, rituals, or words. But honoring someone can be as simple as breathing through a hard moment or whispering their name when no one else is listening.

    In the first year, your only responsibility is to care for yourself as gently as you cared for the one you lost.

    That may look like rest.
    Or silence.
    Or fewer commitments.
    Or creating new traditions, or none at all.

    Letting go of expectations is not giving up.
    It is choosing compassion over comparison.
    It is choosing presence over pressure.
    It is choosing survival over appearance.

    The first year of loss is not meant to be conquered. It is meant to be endured, one day, one moment, one breath at a time.

    And if all you do this year is make space for your grief, that is enough.

    You are not behind.
    You are not doing it wrong.
    You are doing the hardest thing there is, learning how to live in a world that has changed forever.

    Walk slowly.
    Release what no longer fits.
    And let love guide you through what remains.

    You are allowed to let go.

  • I love you, Momma

    There are words that linger long after they’re spoken, soft echoes that settle into the heart and stay there. For me, it’s the sound of Quinten’s voice saying, “I love you, Momma.”

    He said it often. It wasn’t something he saved for special occasions or dramatic moments; it was just part of who he was. Whether he was heading out the door, finishing a phone call, or telling him goodnight at the end of the day, those were the words he left me with. Simple, steady, and full of love.

    Even at 34, my youngest child, my only boy, was still a Momma’s boy, and he never tried to hide it. There was a sweetness in that, a tenderness that time never took away. No matter how grown he became, that bond between us stayed just as strong, just as gentle.

    The morning of the day he passed away, he said it one last time. I didn’t know then how precious those words would become, how they would echo in my heart in the quiet hours when I miss him most. I still hear them, sometimes in memory, sometimes in the stillness of the day as if he’s reminding me he’s close.

    There’s comfort in that. Because love like that doesn’t end; it simply takes on a new form. It finds new ways to reach you in a moment of peace, a warm memory, a whisper when you need it most.

    And though I can’t hear his voice the way I used to, I carry those words with me always:

    I love you, Momma.
    The most beautiful words he ever gave me.

  • The Day Hospice Entered Our Story

    Quinten went on hospice on April 15, 2025.
    He passed away exactly three months later, on July 15, 2025.

    That date, April 15th, is etched into me. Not because we expected it to change everything, but because it did.

    James and I took Quinten to his appointment at the OU Stephenson Cancer Center that day, believing it would be routine. Quinten had been taking a chemotherapy pill meant to slow the cancer’s growth and spread. His recent lab work showed his AFP tumor marker had increased, so we assumed the doctors would adjust his medication or try something new, understanding that this cancer was stubborn, but still believing there were options.

    We were not prepared for what we were told.

    Because of the significant rise in his AFP tumor marker, the doctors explained that there was nothing more they could do to treat the cancer. No medication to increase. No alternative chemotherapy to try. The next step was hospice care and a referral to the research study department.

    I remember sitting there, hearing the words but not fully understanding how they could be real.

    In that moment, I remembered something we were told at the very beginning, back in the fall of 2023: if they couldn’t get rid of all the cancer, it would come back, and when it did, it would come back with a vengeance and spread quickly.

    I knew this intellectually.
    I just didn’t expect it to happen so soon.

    From the start, Quinten’s cancer journey had been complicated and frightening. His very first round of chemotherapy had to be given in the hospital because the cancer was already advanced. He was given three extremely strong chemotherapy drugs and monitored closely. On the third day, Quinten went neurotoxic. He couldn’t communicate. He seemed lost somewhere far away in his mind.

    Doctors rushed in and immediately administered the antidote. We didn’t know if he would recover. His body was swollen from fluid overload, but that felt secondary to the fear that we might lose him, the person we loved, even if his body survived.

    Then, on the second day, he recognized James and me.
    His speech was slurred, but he was communicating again.

    The relief was overwhelming.

    Over the next few days, he improved significantly. They completed his chemotherapy, minus the drug that caused the neurotoxicity. But without all three drugs, his chances of eliminating the cancer were reduced. This rare form of testicular cancer, a yolk sac tumor in an adult, is difficult to cure even when caught early. Now, without a key chemotherapy drug, a cure was no longer possible.

    Still, Quinten wasn’t done fighting.

    He chose to continue treatment, opting for three more months of inpatient chemotherapy. He was determined to gain time, valuable time, and live his life as fully as he could. For three months, our routine became one week in the hospital followed by three weeks at home. Labs. Appointments. Scans. Waiting.

    And for a while, things looked hopeful. The fluid came off quickly after his first round. New scans showed that most of the cancer was gone from his abdomen and lungs. The remaining testicle with cancer was removed to improve his chances. His kidneys were holding on thanks to stents, though we learned those would need to be changed in surgery every three months to keep his kidneys functioning.

    Despite everything, Quinten was happy.
    He was willing.
    He was brave.

    He accepted whatever was required of him because he wanted to live. He wanted time. He wanted moments. He wanted life.

    That is what makes April 15th so devastating.

    That was the day we were told the fight had shifted, not because Quinten had given up, but because his body had reached its limit. Hospice did not mean he stopped fighting. It meant the fight changed.

    Even in hospice, Quinten was brave. He was determined. He gave it everything he had until the very end.

    He lived only three months in hospice.
    But in those final months at home, he showed us what courage looks like.
    What love looks like.
    What it means to keep choosing life, even while preparing to let go.

    Hospice entered our story that day, but it did not erase who Quinten was. It simply marked the beginning of our final chapter together, one written with honesty, tenderness, and an unfathomable amount of love.

    And I will carry that chapter with me always.

  • Fishing With James

    For as long as I can remember, Quinten loved being near the water with a fishing pole in hand. But what made fishing truly special for him wasn’t just the quiet of the lake or the thrill of catching something; it was who he got to share it with: James.

    James was more than a stepfather to Quinten. He was a friend, a guide, and the earthly father Quinten had longed for since losing his own dad at the age of six. After marrying James, something in Quinten’s heart was restored. That missing piece, that father-son connection, was finally found.

    As the years went on, and especially during Quinten’s illness, James became his anchor. They were inseparable through the hard parts, chemo treatments, labs, and countless doctors’ visits, but James gave Quinten something even more important than care. He gave him companionship, laughter, and the steady love only a father can give.

    And for Quinten, their fishing trips together were pure joy. Sitting side by side at the lake, lines in the water, he could forget about cancer for a little while. Out there, it wasn’t about illness or struggle. It was about being two buddies at the water’s edge, swapping stories, sharing laughter, and soaking in the peace of the great outdoors.

    Fishing gave Quinten more than a hobby. It gave him moments of freedom, connection, and joy, moments he deeply valued, because they were shared with James.

    Looking back, I know Quinten treasured those times most of all. Fishing with James wasn’t just his favorite activity; it was a reminder of the love and fatherhood he had always longed for, and the bond that carried him through the hardest of days.

  • The First Christmas Without Him

    Christmas is quickly approaching, and the world seems to be moving toward joy, lights on, music playing, people talking about traditions and plans. But for me, this season feels different now. It carries a weight I’ve never known before, because this will be the first Christmas without Quinten.

    I’ve always known Christmas as a time of gathering, warmth, laughter, food, and familiar faces. Quinten was woven into all of it. His presence, his hugs, his way of being in the room made the holiday feel complete. And now, everywhere I look, I see the place where he should be.

    Grief has a way of changing even the most cherished traditions. Things that once brought comfort can now bring tears. Decorations feel heavier. Songs land differently. Even the calendar feels cruel as it marches toward a day that can never look the same again.

    I find myself wondering how to do Christmas now.
    How to honor the joy without feeling disloyal to the grief.
    How to create moments for the rest of the family while carrying the ache of his absence.

    Some days, I want to skip it altogether. Other days, I want to hold it close, not as it used to be, but as it must be now. Slower. Softer. With room for tears as well as love.

    I know Quinten would never want Christmas to be only sad. He was too full of life, too full of fun, too full of love for that. And so, I’m learning that this first Christmas isn’t about pretending everything is okay. It’s about allowing it to be exactly what it is, tender, imperfect, and deeply meaningful.

    There will be moments when the grief feels sharp. Moments when I miss his hugs so badly that it takes my breath away. And there will also be moments when love rises up in memories, in quiet laughter, in the presence of those who are still here.

    This Christmas won’t look like the ones before. And that truth hurts. But it is also a reminder of how deeply Quinten was loved, and how much his life mattered.

    As this first Christmas approaches, I’m holding space for both the sorrow and the love. I’m learning that even in the absence, love still shows up. It just does so differently now.

    And so, I will walk into this holiday gently.
    With an open heart.
    With grace for myself.
    And with the quiet hope that love, his love, will still find its way into our home.

    Because even in loss, love remains.

  • Celebrating Life, the Quinten Way

    Birthdays were always special to Quinten. It didn’t matter whose name was on the cake; he approached each celebration with the same joy and enthusiasm. He loved the dinners, the laughter around the table, the sweetness of cake, and the tradition of singing “Happy Birthday.” For him, birthdays weren’t just about marking another year; they were about gathering, sharing love, and making sure everyone felt celebrated.

    This photo captures one of those moments that now means so much: Quinten blowing out candles alongside his nephew, Lincoln, whom he loved dearly. Their bond was undeniable, filled with laughter, inside jokes, and shared traditions. To see them side by side, celebrating together, is a reminder of the joy Quinten poured into every relationship.

    Saturday family dinners were the setting for these birthday moments. Quinten would arrive with a smile, eager to see everyone, ready to make the day brighter. He had a gift for making people feel special, for turning ordinary evenings into treasured memories.

    Now, as I look back, I see more clearly the legacy he left us. Quinten showed us that celebrations aren’t about perfection or grandeur; they are about presence. They are about showing up, laughing loudly, and finding joy in the company of those we love.

    Even in the midst of his own battles, Quinten never let go of that joy. He reminded us, week after week, that life is worth celebrating, and that the people we gather with are what make those celebrations sacred.

    And that is how I will always remember him, not just in the birthdays he loved, but in the way he taught us all to celebrate life itself.