Conversations with Carli

There are certain “clubs” in life you dream about being part of—being a parent, a grandparent, a spouse, a best friend. And then there are the clubs no one ever signs up for, the ones that come with loss.

When you lose someone you love to cancer—especially far too soon—you suddenly find yourself holding a membership card to a club you never wanted to belong to. For me, that came when I lost my sister. She was too young, too full of life, and had so many dreams left to see through.

One of the things she wanted most was to be a grandma. She talked about it often, and I know in my heart she would have been the best Grandma ever. Today, she has three beautiful grandchildren. They will grow up knowing her only through our stories, photos, and the little pieces of her that live on in all of us. And while it’s comforting to share her love with them, there’s also a lingering ache in knowing she never got to hold them in her arms.

Being a surviving sibling, spouse, or child means you carry two weights at once: the grief of your loss and the responsibility of keeping their memory alive. It’s a delicate balance of moving forward while never forgetting. Some days, it feels like a heavy burden. Other days, it feels like an honor.

I’ve learned that being part of this “club” means your heart expands in ways you didn’t think possible. You cry when milestones happen—the weddings, the babies, the birthdays—because you know exactly who is missing. But you also celebrate bigger, love deeper, and cherish longer, because you know just how precious each moment is.

For anyone else in this unchosen club: you’re not alone. Our stories may be different, but our bond is the same. We live with a love so big it couldn’t be contained by this life, and a grief so deep it changes us forever.

I carry my sister with me in every laugh, every family gathering, and every new chapter. She didn’t get to be here for her grandchildren, but they will know her through me. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what being part of this club is really about—becoming the bridge between the life that was, and the life that continues!

When a sibling dies, attention often shifts toward their spouse, their children, their parents. Understandably so. But siblings grieve too—deeply, quietly, and often unseen.

I was 22 when my brother died in a hunting accident. He was just 26. His wife—my best friend—was suddenly a widow with a 10-week-old baby. My heart broke for her, and for the little boy who would grow up without his dad. I missed my brother every day, but what carried me forward was staying close to his family. His son grew up, and now his grandson is 13. I love when he asks me questions about the grandfather he never got to meet. Sharing those stories keeps my brother alive in ways that feel sacred.

Decades later, I lost my sister to ovarian cancer. She was 53, with four children. One of the last things she said to me was, “We raised our kids together. Take care of them for me.” She never got the chance to become a grandmother, something she longed for. Today, she has three grandchildren. I adore them—but sometimes I feel a sharp edge of survivor’s guilt. She should be here with them. She should be the one spoiling them, telling stories, and seeing her children become parents.

This is part of the complexity of sibling grief: it doesn’t end with the funeral. It shows up years later, in milestones and empty chairs, in the joy of new babies paired with the sorrow of who’s missing. It’s not just about losing a person—it’s about losing the future you imagined together.

But even in that ache, there is purpose. I’ve come to see myself as a bridge. I carry forward their stories, their love, their presence, for the generations who never got to know them. I speak their names. I tell their children and grandchildren what they were like, what they loved, and how deeply they are missed.

To those who’ve lost a sibling: your grief matters. It is valid, even if it’s quiet, even if it’s overlooked. Keep telling their stories. Keep loving their people. And allow yourself both the joy of being here and the sorrow that they are not.

Because sibling grief is more than absence—it is a lifelong act of remembrance and love! 🙏🏼🕊️

Life has a way of surprising us. One moment, everything feels smooth and predictable, and the next—bam—a twist or turn appears out of nowhere.

Challenges come in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes they’re the kind that shake your foundation, and other times they’re just small annoyances that test your patience.

But here’s the thing: when you step back, take a breath, and keep it in perspective, it changes everything.

Right now, as I’m typing this, I’m looking out into the night sky. The Big Dipper is shining so clearly it feels like it’s waving at me. It’s been hanging in the sky for thousands of years—long before my challenges, long before yours—and it will still be there tomorrow. There’s something grounding in that.

Life really is amazing. Even in the hard parts, even in the unexpected detours, there are small reminders of beauty and consistency if you choose to notice them.

So here’s my reminder to you (and to myself):

✔️ Take a step back.

✔️ Look for the Big Dipper moments.

✔️ Keep it in perspective.

Because when we do, we realize that the twists and turns aren’t just obstacles—they’re what guide us to the next chapter, and ultimately, to our authentic self.

Should you feel guilty taking up space on an outdoor patio brewery hot spot as a solo diner? You are sitting at a booth in the corner. It is designed to seat at least 4 comfortably. It can seat 6 if you like the people you are with. You are a solo diner and the patio space is getting crowded. Should you move to a solo seating bench? Or should you not worry about taking up the extra seating? After all, it’s open seating. No one said other people couldn’t sit here by me, but we know they wont. At least not in a small town. In big cities like New York, Seattle, and San Francisco, people would gladly crowd in next to you. They enjoy their beverages and carry on their conversations. There is not much acknowledgment that you are even there. But not in a small town. Everyone keeps to their own little groups, and their own little conversations. Until of course, the alcohol kicks in and the inhibitions fade. Then it’s a free for all….let the conversations start.

Today, nevertheless, I prefer to sit in my little corner. I have my little glass of wine. I am typing away and deep in thought, taking up space. Oh, someone just asked to take the only chair at my corner booth. I said go ahead. It must be obvious no one is joining me.

It’s definitely spring. Flowers are blooming. It’s t-shirt and shorts weather. There is more sunshine than you can imagine in this little desert town. The picture perfect Sunday afternoon for a solo diner on the patio!

My father is 91 years old. I’ve had the privilege, particularly over the past couple of years, of spending a lot of time with him and going on adventures, as well like to call them. The biggest fear he has always had, like many of us as we age, is losing our independence and needing assistance to live.

I’ve always used the word “young” when describing my Dad instead of “old” but that changed yesterday when for the first time, I truly saw his as old. His body wearing out, his eyes a little more sunken and his body much more thin. You see four months ago, he was riding a bike, golfing (okay 9 holes instead of 18) but still. We celebrated his 91st birthday 🥳 by going out to dinner with friends. We talked, we reminisced, we laughed. We even went downtown and rode the carousel 🎠 in the town square. He was a kid again in a way and he enjoyed every minute of it.

But that all changed a few weeks ago. I was isolating at home with Covid, which in my case felt more like a really sever head cold. My throat was sore and my voice was hoarse when I spoke. I called my Dad on one of the days (he lives in a different state) to tell him I had tested positive and check in to see how he was doing. He sounds hoarse as well and was coughing. I jokingly said “you sound like me, are you sure you don’t have Covid?” He said it was just allergies and he would take some Benadryl.

A week later, he’s in the hospital with non-Covid related pneumonia. His left lung had filled with fluid and they were draining it. He was in the hospital for 3 days, then they sent him home with a strong dosage of antibiotics. He was home through the weekend but by the next Wednesday he was back in the ER, his lung filling up again and a sort of mental confusion setting in.

I came from out of state to be with him in the hospital and give some relief to my other siblings who have been with him. I have to admit, even after getting updates I was not prepared to see the man who I had ridden the carousel with a few months earlier in such a dire state of confusion. He’s lost weight in the hospital, can hardly carry on a conversation and I had to feed him dinner last night because he couldn’t remember how to eat. The doctors are still trying to pinpoint the kind of infection that grew out of the pneumonia, or vise versa I’m not sure. But it’s hard to watch.

One of the nurses is referring to his confusion as “hospital lirium”. Is that really a thing? Particularly in seniors? He’s been back in there for a week this go around.

So it now begs the question, will he take a turn for the better now being on a stronger antibiotic and having the fluid drained? Will his hospital lirium go away and his cognitive thinking return? I have glimmers of hope for that. Last night we phoned my Son and he spoke to Papa via FaceTime. All of the sudden he was “Papa” again. He carried on a conversation for a few minutes, even laughed and spoke coherently. But after we hung up, he would not speak the rest of the evening. Just kept touching his head and saying he was confused.

We will see what today and tomorrow and the next day bring. But at the end of the day, I know my father is ready to go, if that’s God’s will. He longs to take that great adventure in the sky and hold tightly to the family and loved ones waiting to embrace him on the other side. 🕊

#heaven #papa #hospitals #pnemonia #delirium #adventures #livelifetothefullest #confusion #independence

What’s happening in the world today is most definitely a tipping point in history. Amongst all the horrific injustices to the people of Ukraine, it’s bringing the world together in a way I have never seen in my lifetime.

Prayers for the determined, the fighters, the hero’s, the martyrs. Would you in the same situation take up arms like the people of Ukraine have to save your lands, your freedom, your brothers, your way of life?

I sincerely pray 🙏🏼 for all Ukrainian people, may your sacrifices not be in vain. 🇺🇦

#ukraine #peaceonearth #standtall #proudnation🇺🇦