When I was fifteen, in May of 2004, Granny was diagnosed with lung cancer. She had smoked most of her life and had only recently quit, only to find out that she was going to have to start fighting hard.

My parents, siblings, and I lived in Tennessee, while the rest of my family lived in Florida. We immediately made the trip down to see Granny. When we returned home, we received a call that my granny had a stroke. She had been sitting at her kitchen table planning my cousin’s 20th birthday (June 1st). One minute, she was talking; the next minute, she wasn’t even sure who she was or what she was doing. She didn’t even know exactly who my Pawpaw was, a man she had been married to since she was seventeen.

When we received the call, we basically headed right back to Florida. Granny was in the hospital at this point, and she was recognizing some people. When we went in her room, she recognized everyone in the family. Everyone but me. She couldn’t remember my name. Pawpaw kept saying, “Megan,” but Granny kept calling me “Vicki,” which was her niece’s name. Even after saying my name, she somehow couldn’t repeat it. I had a hard time holding back tears, but I knew she recognized who I was, and she was getting so frustrated because she couldn’t say my name. She started crying and said, “Ohh! I know you. I know your name!” Eventually, she finally said my name and she was thrilled that she said it.

It was hard watching her struggle. She was very child-like in those moments. Once she could say my name, it was as if her demeanor changed a bit. She looked happier. Dad immediately decided that we would move back to Florida. Inside, I was struggling with this idea because I didn’t want to leave my friends. I think Granny knew it would be hard on me, because as soon as Dad told her we were moving back to Florida, she looked directly at me and said, “I’m sorry, Megan.”

Just moments before, she couldn’t even say my name; in that moment, though, she somehow knew me and knew what I was feeling.

Granny had a stroke because she had a brain tumor–something doctors didn’t see in previous scans. In the next couple months, life was a blur of moving to Florida, leaving friends, watching my Granny get better and then worse. Eventually, though she had chemo and radiation, the cancer moved to other parts of her body. There were days that I thought she could fight through it, and there were days where I prayed for her to feel no more pain.

Granny passed away on August 6, 2004. I have many fond memories of her, but one of my clearest memories is of her apologizing to me while she was in so much pain.

And something I wish I would’ve said in that moment: Granny, you have nothing to be sorry for.

One of my favorite things to do when Granny was alive was cook with her. I remember her phonecalls to tell me that she was making chicken & dumplins. I’d run next door and she’d cover the counter in flour. I was always in charge of flattening the biscuits, and she even let me drop them into the boiling water. I loved her chicken & dumplins, and I wish I would have remembered her “recipe” more clearly. (She never really followed recipes–she just knew how to cook.) Of course, I suppose I assumed I would be able to call her up when I got married one day to say, “Granny, I have no idea what to make for dinner. Tell me how to make your chicken & dumplins.” That will never happen, though, so I’ll have to try to remember the recipe on my own.

I think the hardest part of her not being here anymore is that I can’t call her up when I’m going through a rough patch to say, “tell me what to do.” It’s selfish because I know she’s much happier where she’s at, hand-in-hand with my Pawpaw, but she was always the one to give me guidance. Instead, I now think, what would Granny suggest I do in this situation? That’s how I’ve lived my life since she passed away.

Granny and I used to make the stuffing/dressing together for Thanksgiving. We’d toast the bread in the oven and tear it apart over a huge storage bin. (We made a lot of stuffing!) We’d add the eggs, salt, broth, cornbread, and everything else that makes stuffing so delicious. Mix it with your hands, she’d remind me. Even though it would cover my hands in soggy bread crumbs, I’d do it because I knew that love was the secret ingredient, as she always said. It was always a hit at Thanksgiving lunch/dinner. A few years before Granny passed away, she let me make the stuffing by myself. She reminded me of everything that went in it, but I did everything by myself while she peeled potatoes and baked pies and made the turkey. I’m glad she let me do it by myself that year. Since she’s passed away, I’ve only made it a few times (with my aunt reminding me of everything that needs to go in it), but it just never tastes the same.

I loved cooking with Granny. One of her favorite and easiest things to eat, though, was a tomato & miracle whip sandwich. Yesterday, Husband and I picked two tomatoes out of the garden, and as soon as we got inside, I sliced one. The warm tomato would have been perfect for one of Granny’s tomato sandwiches, and I wish she were here so that I could give her one. Instead, I’m going to go home this afternoon and cut into the second tomato. I’m going to take two slices of bread and cover them in miracle whip and add the tomato. Then I’m going to sit back and relax and send a message to my aunt to remind me how to make Granny’s chicken & dumplins.

And I’m going to say a quiet thank you to my Granny for reminding me that love is the secret ingredient to life.

I see them in everything–the fallen leaves; the warm rays of the sun; the breeze blowing through the trees; my own eyes when I look into the mirror. It’s hard not to when they were such a big part of the first sixteen years of my life. Sometimes, it makes me smile as I remember jumping into the leaves she raked up into big piles every fall. Sometimes, it makes me sad that there never seem to be enough leaves anymore. Sometimes, it makes me smile if I forget to put sugar in my tea, remembering that he had a passion for unsweet tea. Sometimes, it makes me sad that I’ll never be able to make him a glass of unsweet tea again.

This time seven years ago, I was watching my granny deal with her diagnosis of cancer. She was only diagnosed at the end of May, and at this point, we were all positive she would beat it. If this were 2004, though, I’d be holding her lifeless hand in just less than two month’s time. It all went so quickly, yet time moved in slow motion. Watching her struggle every day was difficult for me. I was only fifteen at the time, and she was only in her fifties. It was painful to watch her struggle for breath as her lungs continued to fill. I remember her losing the sparkle in her blue eyes at one point, and I knew it was going to be over soon. Before she died, the sparkle came back, and she was ready to go. Happy, even. How could I be sad for her departure when she was glowing with so much happiness? She passed away within days.

I held his hand at her memorial. She told me to be there for him, her husband–her best friend, my pawpaw. The next several months were a blur. Life seemed to keep going, though I was sure it should have stopped at some point. I turned sixteen and he gave me a card–my first birthday card without her name signed to it. I remember watching him from a distance, even though I was sitting right next to him. He went through his normal routine, and we tried to make the transition easy for him after losing his wife of forty-or-so years. I could see sadness growing in his eyes, though. We moved home soon, and he came to visit with my cousins. He was sick, but it was just the flu. We thought it was just the flu. That was until we had to rush him to the hospital. Before he left, he said “I’ll be back soon, babe.” That was the last time I saw him. He died from congestive heart failure, though the doctors called it a broken heart.

I couldn’t be sad. I was more angry than sad. I was still mourning the loss of my granny, and now my pawpaw was gone, too. It was too much to handle, but I had to be strong. I felt like I failed my granny by not keeping my pawpaw protected, but what did I expect? He didn’t want death to do them part. He wanted to be with her in life and death. And so he was. I had to feel peace that they were together once again and will now be together eternally.

I don’t dream of them often. I always thought it was because they were visiting the dreams of people who needed them more–their son, my dad; my mom; my siblings and cousins. I promised to be the strength for them, so I always tell myself that they’ll come to my dreams when I need them most.

I want to tell their story. Their story of love and life and death. I want to tell how it effected me, but I’ve had a hard time coming to terms with it. I have a hard time deciding where to begin. I have a hard time remembering all the details of their deaths when I’ve spent so many years trying to forget. I have a hard time remembering they’re gone.

I’m on my knees. I need them now.

Winter is not my favorite season, though I don’t hate it. Sometimes, I’m just so ready for it to end because I want more sunshine and warm weather. I was looking through photos yesterday, and I came across some of my favorite shots from last summer, and they’ve been a good reminder of the life that summer contains.

What are you favorite things about summer?

*All images are my own.

I often fear the holidays. I write about how it will never be the same.

Thanksgiving was once my favorite holiday. It still is, in some ways, but it doesn’t have that same ring to it. It isn’t something I look forward to (anymore), nor is it something I dread. It just is. The last Thanksgiving I spent with my paternal grandparents (together) was in 2003. It’s been six years, and really, has it been that long? Has it taken me six years to come to a point where I can say, “I’m okay. I can breathe through it”? I’ve spent six years holding my breath through holidays, holding back tears. Even just last year, I wanted to crawl in a hole and let the holidays pass by me. What has changed? Have I become more wholly myself?

It has actually been seven years now, as that was written last year. I’m not sure I’ve become more wholly myself, as I could write that same post today and feel those same feelings.

Granny and I always made the stuffing together. The last year she was alive, before she knew it would be her last Thanksgiving, she let me make the stuffing on my own, showing me that I could do it … That I was old enough, finally, to take something on without her. Little did I know that I would soon have to take on life without her … But I have been, and I will continue to do so. (Without her physically, at least.)

When she was diagnosed with lung cancer in May of 2004, I was already prepared. I knew it was coming one day. Afterall, she had smoked for decades. What I wasn’t prepared for was the day she wouldn’t beat it, just three months later. I don’t blame her, though. She didn’t just give up.  She was ready, and her body was tired of fighting. She fought long enough to show me the true meaning of life–to love wholly and to live without regrets.

Although I still feel sad each holiday, I don’t allow it to overcome me anymore. I try to push through, and I try to make the best of it. I’m turning twenty-two next week, and I’m hoping to continue learning how to become more clearly myself.

So, this Thanksgiving, I will enjoy it without regretting that my Granny (and Pawpaw, her husband) are no longer here. On my 21st birthday (in just less than a week), I will love wholly and be thankful for another year of life.

In February (on a Tuesday), I was driving to work. I had driven the route every work day for over a year, so it was all very familiar. My security badge for work was in the back seat, when it is normally in the front seat. I wanted to grab it so that I could have it when I went through the security checkpoint at work, but something kept telling me to just focus on the road.

Eventually, I just decided to grab it. The next few minutes (seconds?) were a complete blur–literally. I started to go off the edge of the road a bit (after taking my eyes off of it for a split second), so I quickly jerked my steering wheel to the left to put myself back on the road. Of course, I overcorrected, and I ended up spinning too far to the left. Somehow, a car that was coming toward me, missed hitting me. I tried to fix my error, but I overcorrected again and flew too far to the right. I don’t know how many times this happened. I was screaming. It was dark, and my head was spinning, and I thought another car would hit me. The road I was on was usually fairly busy, even at that time of the morning. There had only been one car, though–the car that somehow missed hitting me. The next thing I knew, my car stopped, just inches short of hitting a guard rail on the driver’s side; my back tires were on the edge of the road, nearly falling off  the hill behind me.

I couldn’t think. I was in the other lane, and my car was sideways, and I somehow managed to gather my thoughts enough to realize I needed to get out of that road before a car came around the corner and hit me without realizing I was there. I got back on the road, in my lane, and I started making my way toward work, but my legs started shaking so bad, and I had to pull over. I was too much of a nervous wreck, so I called my husband. By the time he arrived, I felt a little better, so he just followed me home, and I went to bed.

When I woke up, I felt like it was a dream. I didn’t write about it right away because I didn’t know how to say how it made me feel. Nine months have passed, and I still don’t really know what to say. I just know I need to write it out so that I can get over it.

For the past nine months, I’ve had dreams of wrecking my car. Sometimes, I’m terrified of driving, and I breathe a sigh of relief every time I pass the part of the road that it happened on. When a car in front of me starts to drift off the road, I slow down and back off, afraid of what could happen. I’m afraid of someone drifting into my lane and hitting me head-on. After the “incident,” I started having moments of feeling a bit “unreal” when I was driving. I would start to daze, and I’d have to quickly snap out of it to focus on driving. Most of those feelings have gone away, but they’re still there; that’s why I wanted to write this.

Since it happened, I’ve stopped texting while driving (even though I wasn’t texting at the time). I don’t even answer my phone if someone is calling. I usually just pull over and answer it if I need to. I always keep my security badge in the front seat, and I put it around my neck before driving. I don’t even mess with the radio while driving. That moment just made me realize how quickly I can lose control, even on a familiar road. Driving is serious–you’re operating a heavy machine, and it’s terrifying when that heavy machine is flying across a dark highway with a screaming person inside that is wondering if she’ll be dead or alive when the vehicle stops.

When I was younger, I lived in a yard filled with pine trees. Pine needles and pine cones always remind me of my childhood, and anytime I find one, I become a bit nostalgic. A few weeks ago, I was walking around the local park when I found a tiny pinecone by itself in the grass. I photographed it, and I took it home where it safely sits.

Occasionally, I pick it up from its safe place to admire it and think about my childhood: running barefoot through the trees, hiding in the gardenia bushes, kicking up Florida sand as I ran. I remember decorating pinecones with glue & glitter for Christmas tree ornaments. I’m going to keep taking pictures of the little pinecone so that I can be reminded of the simplicity of childhood.

Eventually, I’m hoping to open an Etsy shop that offers a few of my photographs, and I want to include a series of my pinecone photos. Is there something that reminds you of your childhood? Take a picture of it in different locations! This could be a fun, little project.

Don’t forget about my giveaway. You have until Tuesday to enter to win!

I don’t remember how old I was–I do know that I was younger than eleven, though. I always feared that my birthday would be forgetten because it falls just a week after Thanksgiving. I would remind people of it at times, but I taught myself not to care much about it just in case. Granny always called in the morning, though, to sing “happy birthday” to me over the phone. (She didn’t have a beautiful singing voice, but I miss listening to it, sleepy-eyed and with a smile on my face.) This particular birthday, though, she called and told me to come over. We had lived next door, so her house wasn’t very far, and I made my way over. When I walked inside, everything was dark. I followed a glow coming from the kitchen, though, and that glow turned out to be from candles sitting on top of a homemade birthday cake. Granny was hiding behind the counter, and when I walked in, she jumped out to say, “Happy birthday!” On that birthday, she gave me a handmade photo album, and it was the best gift I was ever given.

On my sixteenth birthday, just a little over three months after Granny died, I thought no one would remember. We had all been walking in a haze since her death, and I wasn’t even expecting anyone to remember. I woke up to a quiet house, and as I made my way to the same kitchen that my Granny had surprised me in, I saw a pink envelope sitting on the kitchen table. It had my name on it, so I reached for it. I opened it to find a birthday card from my Pawpaw–the first birthday card without Granny’s name on it. It was bittersweet. I could see Pawpaw watching me from his bedroom, and he came into the kitchen to hug me. My older cousin then came in and said, “Happy birthday, brat!” and in that moment, everything felt normal.

My Pawpaw was a hard worker. He usually arrived home around seven or later, and Granny always had a plate from dinner in the oven, keeping it warm for him. Pawpaw was my absolute favorite man in the world (alongside my Dad, but since they were father and son, I figured they were allowed to be equal). I looked forward to the moment I would see him coming down their long driveway. I waited patiently by the window, watching for his car. As soon as I caught a glimpse of it, I’d run to the kitchen and get him a glass of unsweet tea (his favorite). I’d help Granny put his plate at his spot at the table, and I’d put his giant cup of unsweet tea and the daily newspaper there as well. I waited for him to walk through the door, and I immediately hugged him. He always walked to his bedroom first to remove his work shirt, and he’d pull his glasses from his pocket and sit at his chair to read his paper while he ate dinner.

I waited while he read his paper, excited for him to finish so that I could tell him about my day, and I could hear about his. It was my absolute favorite time of day, and I look back on it with fondness. I followed this routine until we moved away (we had lived next door to them), and even then, I’d look forward to the evenings that we took trips to their house so I could follow the routine all over again.

I’d love to make him a big glass of unsweet tea today.

I saw Doni’s post on the places she has lived throughout her life, and I thought I’d do something similar. Unlike my husband, I haven’t lived in the same place my entire life, and I believe my homes have shaped the person I am today.

Shady Hills, Florida. This is in Pasco County, not too far from Tampa. I lived here for less than the first two years of my life, so I don’t exactly remember it. (I was actually born in New Port Richey, Florida and then flown Gainesville, Florida because I was six weeks premature; I actually spent the first month of my life at Shands Hospital in the NICU.)

Fort Riley, Kansas. My dad was in the army (he was in Desert Storm), and we were stationed in Kansas. (I think we lived in multiple places in Kansas, but this is the place I remember most.) My sister was born here, so I know I wasn’t even two years old. I remember it snowing once, I think. I also remember always playing with a girl named Britney. Since I was so young, they’re vague memories.

Shady Hills, Florida. We moved back to Shady Hills when Dad got out of the army. I know we were here by the time I started pre-k at the age of four or five. This was my childhood home, and we lived right next door to my Granny & Pawpaw. When I write about childhood memories, this is where they took place.

Spring Hill, Florida. Located in Hernando County, Spring Hill is just the next city over from Shady Hills. We moved there when I was in the fifth grade, and I loved our house. In my bedroom, I had a “library nook” where I kept all of my books, and I had a “reading nook,” a little seat that looked over my front yard. Fifth and sixth grade were spent here.

Pikeville, Tennessee. As I was about to embark on my seventh grade year, my parents decided to move to Tennessee. I was devastated, but I’m so grateful for this decision now. I remember spending September 11, 2001 in Florida still, so it was sometime soon after that when we moved to Tennessee.

Dayton, Tennessee. My family decided to move here when I was in the ninth grade so that Dad would be closer to work. Dayton is where the Scopes Trial took place.

Shady Hills, Florida. I almost forgot this because I often block it from my memory. We went back to Florida right before my sophomore year of high school started. My Granny had been diagnosed with lung cancer, so Dad wanted to be close to her. I went to school at Hudson High School until February of my sophomore year, then we moved back to Tennessee.

Evensville, Tennessee. Just north of Dayton (in the same county, so I didn’t switch high schools); my family moved here after coming back from Florida. 

Spring City, Tennessee. Just north of Evensville (in the same county again, so I remained at the same high school). We moved here my senior year of high school. I started dating Husband while living here, and it’s where I turned eighteen.

Chattanooga, Tennessee. Just a few months after graduating, Husband and I moved to Chattanooga. We lived there from August 2007 to July 2008 (through our engagement and first month of marriage). We lived in a 2-bedroom apartment, and we had two different roommates over the course of our stay there.

Spring City, Tennessee. Such a small town, and this is where we reside now. We moved in with my in-laws in July 2008. In June 2009, we moved into our own house and have lived there since. Next summer, though? We might be moving back to Chattanooga to finish our schooling at a university.

Where have you lived over the course of your life?