I’ve been quiet here because the most beloved person in my life is in hospice, my Grandma. This is a personal reflection (more for me); some details are softened for privacy.

If you’re grieving, take what helps and leave what hurts.
”For those who went ahead.”— Destin

Me and Grandma, Spring 1994, Portland, Oregon.
My most memorable memory with grandma.
Seven years old. A red tulip. Grandma’s smile.
For a moment, everything was gentle, and the world was amazing.

Where this begins

I have been out of the loop.
I have not been running.
I have not been biking.
I have not been as present with my kids as a responsible parent should be.
I have quietly stepped back from the things in life I enjoy.
And I have not been writing.
Why?
Because the most impactful person in my life is dying, and there is not a DAMN thing I can do about it.
I am writing this to honor my grandmother, and to bring value to anyone who is grieving.

“The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.” — Alan Watts

Alzheimer’s

For the past month I’ve been dreaming of Grandma.
Like a favorite movie on repeat.
Same scenes, slightly different angles.
Happy memories rush me.
Some clear. Some blurred, like rain on glass, Portland style.

She used to guide me through the Northwest mountains.
We learned about life while we walked, drove, ran, and climbed.
Counted bird nests that were easily spotted during the late autumn when the trees had no leaves.
We did this to sharpen my English, as well as my counting skills.
I can still feel the powerful autumn gusts as small leaves touch my cheeks on their way down.
We meandered all over the city and…we just talked… no hurry…no worry… Just us.

Yellowstone, 4/14/1994. Seven years me old, binoculars up.
Grandma said, “Never stop searching until you find exactly what you’re looking for.”.

But of course, regrets also accompanied me.
I wish. I had sat longer. Listened more.
Was more in tuned. Ecstatic. Happier. Cherished those dear moments.
How I would give anything to go back in time.
To hold her hands before the fog.
Before the loss. Before the era of Alzheimer’s.

Me and Grandma, 2016. After the Alzheimer’s diagnosis, we held on a little tighter.

Halloween 2025

I went to visit you today, Grandma.
It has been a while, because life, like you always said, “gets busy.”
I went to tell you I love you like you use to tell me in my voice mails.
To let you know I will be having another son.
Before that joy could land, another piece of news arrived,
the kind I do not ever want to hear.
I was told you would not make it to Thanksgiving.

Grandma, 2021. Her voice will always echo in my heart.
"I just called to tell you I love you…and ill see you one of these days real soon.”

My heart stopped.
Grandma, did you know it took me eight years to accept Alzheimer’s,
and what it would take from me, you, and us?
And now the moment I have dreaded for twenty-five years is fast approaching.
I am about to lose the person who loves me the most in this world.
The one person who has always believed in me.
You picked me up when I fell.
You tugged me to my feet.
You whispered, get up on your terms, then made sure I kept moving.
My teacher. My friend. My light. My wisdom. My roots. My savior.
The one person in the world I told everything.

What the disease could not take

I stared into your eyes and saw what the disease tried to pilfer.
Even as you drifted between reality and that locked universe.
There it was. That sparkle. That warmth. There was love.
You saw my tears and still found away to ask if I was alright.
A faint whisper. A nod. Not definitive, but I knew.
You raised your eyebrows to say you loved me after I told you I loved you.
How did I know? The same way you knew.
When you first met me the five year old me, and knew.
Knew. He would become someone special to you.
Grandma, that special bond exists only between us.

Her 89th birthday, 2021. The room went quiet as she blew out her candles. For a second, the world stood still in that soft, golden light. One wish, one breath, one smile—one more memory with Grandma.

At this very moment, you would ask me.
”Are you okay hun?”
”No, Grandma, I am not alright.”
I am dreading. Counting. Knowing.
My heart feels like it has a big void growing inside it.
My chest is a growing hole. Like a ton-sized brick sitting on my heart.

Did you know that you will leave this world you have brightened?
One day I won’t hold your hands.
Won’t touch your face.
Won’t whisper I love you.
I will not ever be able to kiss you… for loving me so fiercely…
for giving me life…

April 1994, Wyoming. Museum day: fossils behind us, Grandma beside me, both roaring like we mean it.

The promise I make

I’m not okay. But I will be.
You taught me that. And I learned it.

You gave me the 4 Ls. Love. Learn. Live. Leap.
When you are gone it will be my time to leap.

New Zealand, April 2005. Seventy-nine years young. Grandma’s round two. Courage is a leap.

I promise you this grandma.
I will make what ever time I have left count.
Every second. Every minute.
Every hour. Every day. Every year.
From here on out, I will make every moment count.
I will raise my children the way you raised me.

Your unconditional love

I remember when a close friend of yours asked what a teen me, “wanted to become” after college.
I quickly answered of the top of my head.
“Attorney, politician, writer, entrepreneur.” But deep down I really did not know.
You overheard from the kitchen, and with a flashed, you stopped the room.

“It does not matter what he becomes. He is great the way he is. Even if he does nothing, he will still be great.” -Grandma

Did you know those words saved me?
From bullies. From my home environment.
From abuse. And most of all, from my self-hating self.
You came into my life and singlehandedly uplifted its trajectory.
Through we were not bond by blood, you showed me that did not matter.

Illustration: I walked, the lamp burned, Grandma loved.

When I first set foot in this country, you saw hope when others didn’t.
You showed me patience, compassion, love.
You took me places I never imagined.
You brought gifts when I needed them most.
You loved me, and I loved you back.

The fork in the road

You said, “When we die, we just die, and there is nothing.”
Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows?

But what I know is that time is running out.
We are at the end of our journey together.
And I am not where I had hoped to be.
I wanted to make you proud.
I wanted to be sitting on a mountain of success to demonstrate to you,
I learned what you taught.
But I must remind myself to remember. I am enough.
I know this, because you always made sure to assure me that I was enough.

Visiting Grandma, 2019 — probably thinking the same thing. We were cool like that.

I miss our hour-long talks.
How you turned moments into lessons.
I miss when you still drove.
Picked me up from school, and we just wandered.
You hated the word boring.
You said life cannot be boring.
If it feels boring, “someone had given up”.
Living is always something, and that something cannot be boring.
I now fully understand.

Because I do not fear death. I only fear never being able to you again.

There is a fork in the road.
Our paths will have to diverge.
You will climb the high peak. I descend into the canyon.
Perhaps I will see you again, perhaps not.

As I look at the clock, I know it is my turn to continue the journey.
They say, every party ends. Nothing lasts forever.

Know this, Grandma, you left a legacy in me.
I am fortunate have ever had you in my life.
You engraved a mark on me so powerful it changed my life.
You showed me what life can be; its intricacy, its complexity, its simplicity.
And one day I will leave a mark too.

Grandma and her great-grandson, 2021.

A small ritual for the rainy days

One breath, in for four, out for six, her name on the exhale, Grandma.
One act, speak one memory out loud so it keeps breathing.
One page, write a letter and thank her for what she planted.
One promise, live one thing she taught today.

This is discipline in grief.
Tiny choices. Quiet heroics.
No applause. Just the next right thing.

In her element. Grandma in the pool, drink in hand, laughing at the sun.

Morning, say her name three times, thank you after each.
Midday, one act of care in her honor.
Evening, one sentence about her, one seed for tomorrow.
Three lines of discipline, three stitches for a torn heart.

My old poem to you

Dear Grandma,
I remember the note on your wall, “A whirlwind named T.” for me.
People said you came like a whirlwind—fast, powerful, uplifting.
You’d want me to be alright. And I will be.
If it’s your time to go, and you are ready.
I will be okay.
I’ll end with the poem I wrote you in 2016.
It still holds true today.

A Mark of Enlightenment

In essence you are my living Buddha.
The answer to my questions; roots to my foundation.
The compassion of my heart; a beacon to my knowledge.
The confidence to my resilience. The shield to the insignia of my life.
I am a magnolia blossoming from a deep dream.
You taught me: to live is to pursue.
To cut a path toward solitude; to find a song for my heart.
Quenching even the thirstiest of ambitions.

What is life without failure?
I learned: to fall is to learn, to fail is to have been able to learn.
Without knowledge how can one advance?
You taught me success can only be reached through perseverance.
The importance in advancement is not through quickness, but through attainment.

One day I will leave my own imprint on the world—
of greatness, accomplishment, fulfillment, and love.
This imprint will be minor, a tiny dent,
if compared to the mark of enlightenment you have carved upon my soul.

Dedicated to Grandma,
the woman who saved a broken child with her love.
I love you always.
Your grandson,
Destin

Portland Oregon, 1994. Me and my Grandmother. The horizon, a wind vane, and Grandma’s hand — that day she taught me where my life could go. That day she saved me from myself.

This was the most difficult thing I have ever written.
It is the end of a very important chapter and the start of a new one.
This is what she would have wanted.
She told me to never stop writing, so I will not.
Please remember to be happy and cherish your time with your loved ones.

The most important person in my life will soon be gone…
I will take some time off to honor her name…
but I will come back stronger… and focused..
exactly how she would have wanted me to…

I later recorded a video to hold what I couldn’t carry alone. This video is long and raw, but I wanted to preserve it here.