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An In Case of Emergency sign.

“Meet me on the Moon,” I’d said. “If one of us ever dies, that’s where we should meet. We should bring raincoats and flashlights, just in case.”

I said this to a third grade friend, whose name I can’t recall, and then we immediately got into a fight as to whether Snoopy or Garfield was cuter. (Obviously, Snoopy, right?) But it was an excellent plan and one I made, at least in my mind, with nearly everyone I’ve ever loved.

the moon, stars, space, Cosmos, outer spaceEarth's Moon among the stars. Photo by Josh Miller on Unsplash

In just a year and a half's time, my two “in case of emergency” people died. One was my Dad, whose presence in my life was colossal. He was the loudest, smartest person in the room, full of radio stories and Topps baseball cards. You will never meet a person who loved dogs more than him (except possibly myself), and even though he hugged like a Texan— which is just a hard pat on the back—his life force was like a giant swaddling blanket. He’d hate hearing that, because he didn’t like the gooey stuff. But too bad.

I was always making him take “personality” quizzes online and he never understood the point of them. “So I can understand you better,” I’d say. “I like Monty Python. And bacon. What else is there to understand?”

The glow itself didn’t come from him. Warmth wasn’t really his thing. But when I was super young, he’d wake me and my brother up sometimes in the middle of the night to look at the icy rings of Saturn through his telescope. Or the Moon when it was in a particularly rare phase. I’d occasionally sneak into the room when he was watching the original Cosmos on PBS. I’d stroll past his bookshelf, full of theoretical themes and astrophysics. This is where his glow was kept.

We emailed each other YouTube links of songs we liked. I’m not sure he always listened to mine, but it was our way of talking without talking. “Listen to the lyrics.” Or “Get to the bridge when the slide guitar kicks in.” It was between the notes where we found a Dad/Daughter language in which we were both fluent.

-Don Henley, Jackson Browne. Blind Pilotwww.youtube.com

Once, not even that long ago, I proposed this to him: “What if what scientists perceive to be “dark matter” is really just ghosts? We sense something is there, in the fabric of space, but we can’t account for it, because it’s just spirits who were once here and are now gone. Do you think that’s possible?” He didn’t even look up from his iPad. “No. Absolutely not.”

When he got sick with leukemia, I was sitting with him when the hospice chaplain came to visit. My Dad, who certainly wasn’t religious, surprisingly asked, “Do you think we’re reincarnated? Because if so, I’d like to come back as a professional golfer. If I come back as a ballroom dancer, please shoot me and let me start over.”

He then mentioned a fear of coming back as a “water bug.” I said I didn’t think that would happen and he asked how could I be sure. I said, “It’s just the kinda thing you know.”

I didn’t believe he could ever really leave. He’d announced he was leaving for at least 20 years before, (cancer twice, clogged arteries, you name it) and this time around, I thought it was impossible. He had a big birthday party and passed the next morning in his sleep.

Just a Thursday like any given Thursday. I cried noises I didn’t think I could make and then I went to the Moon. I hunted through the cold for remnants of life. I combed through layers of dark matter, asking spirits or professional golfers to reveal themselves. Nothing answered me back.

flashlights, stars, moon, searching, spacesilhouette of man holding flashlight Photo by Linus Sandvide on Unsplash


On a different Thursday, a year and half prior, I saw my best friend (and second-in-command “case of emergency”) Jordan for the last time. I’d dragged him to a dumb “Awards Season” documentary screening, wearing the completely wrong dress that he’d said looked like an Atari game.

He was off that night. But Hollywood is off, so tilted backwards that if anyone stumbles inside of it, they actually seem balanced. Who isn’t off when zombies roam Sunset screaming obscenities and no one seems to notice? The CNN building blink, blink, blinks its red light into our hopeful smog, mistaking us for Time Square, daring us to report how f-ing crazy it all is.

Jordan and I had been sealed the summer of 1997. Boyfriends, apartments, girlfriends, roommates, and dogs came and went, but we were sealed. My romantic crush on him ebbed and flowed until we finally made out for a year in 2005. That put a crimp in the pureness of our friendship and we had to take a few years off for the resentment. I wonder, now, what kind of memories we could have filled in those missing years.

He was that kind of friend who made up nicknames for EVERY. SINGLE. GUY I’d ever even so much as gone on one date with. Star Trek Man. Loud Talker. Crunch the Numbers Guy. The kind of friend with whom you have so many inside jokes, you can’t keep them straight. We wrote lyrics to movie theme songs and would just voice memo them to each other all day long.

He’d gotten really sad around 2016, but hadn’t we all? He got mopey. Started eating poorly, stopped making eye contact. I don’t know if that’s the year he went and bought himself a gun, but that’s what he did.

Four weeks after I saw him, he texted me alternate lyrics to the theme song for the movie Meatballs (which was oddly and hilariously just something about Bill Murray’s face), and then a few days later, he took his own life. I’ve always hated the expression “take your own life,” because it begs the obvious question…took it where? Where did he take it? It makes it sound like he took it to Hawaii on vacation. That life—it was so heavy on me, it seemed impossible to lift. He was my boulder. He was an unmovable green stone that lived inside every tunnel in the gray matter of my mind, dipping in and out like sugar in rum, exploding into light like a Supernova.

space, supernova, green light, art, cosmosan artist's impression of a green spiral in space Photo by Javier Miranda on Unsplash

And so when he left, I got untethered—and not in a good way. I just couldn’t keep my feet in this atmosphere. My darkness turned to rage and then to guilt and then to darkness again. And yeah, that’s all laid out in those pop psych books about grief, but what they don’t tell you is how quiet the in-between moments are. How still and creepy and unkind your own thoughts can be, as if a piece of sepia-toned gauze has been stuck between you and the rest of the world. Once people stop texting “How are you?” you realize the world has continued to spin, even when people you love fall off of it.

So for the last few months, I’d leave my Moon expeditions and bounce back down to Earth to try and fall in love or reconnect or watch the news to understand the nature of man and power and all that comes with it. Ya know, whatever it is we’re supposed to do when we’re alive. But as it turns out, Tinder dates don’t like to hear about this kind of stuff.

Him: “Would you like another martini?”

Me: “…And ANOTHER thing about death and dying is…”

Him: “Check, please!”

So, back up I’d go to the deepest craters, digging for proof of death. Holding my flashlight in its brightest position, searching for signs, as Sagan’s Pale Blue Dot loomed in the background. This same blue dot containing all of my Dad and Jordan’s old photos and trophies and passwords to social media accounts that seem impossible to have ever held such meaning. Wondering if I found them out there, will they know me? Will they remember me?

earth, space, clouds , Pale Blue Dot, planet Earth with clouds above the African continent Photo by NASA on Unsplash

But it turns out I have not been standing on any rock at all. I’ve been in a billion mile dust cloud made up of all the things I wished I’d ever said and done. There is no point of singularity I can return to, as it all just keeps churning outwards. And as you’re hurling through the milky swirls, you don’t have time to grab on to a single thing.

It doesn’t matter how many trillions of times I forget and command Siri to “Call Jordan” or “Call Dad.” Those sound waves become slack tides, and sit stationary, motionless, unable to surf. Though lately when I’ve accidentally asked my iPhone to “Call Dad,” it chooses to “Call Dan”— a guy I went on one awful date with on Bumble. Poor Dan must be so confused…and terrified.

So, I’m touching back down to re-enter the atmosphere for as long as I can. To stop banging my head against the same walls. To try not to turn every heartbreak into “ninth grade Cecily, listening to The Cure on repeat.” Or maybe the opposite…DEFINTELY turn every heartbreak into “ninth grade Cecily listening to The Cure on repeat.” To accept the fact that I’m drawn to people with flaws bigger than my own, perhaps so I can hide inside them like a puzzle piece that never quite fits.

heart, puzzle pieces, love, flawsTwo pink hearts float on a black background Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

And yes, while the “How are you?” texts stop coming, love, even in death, is stronger than any answer you could even give to that insipid question. It exists on its own, whether you’re of sound mind or not. It exists, even if the Moon contingency plan seems elusive.

Reentry from the darkest corners of time, space, faulty neurotransmitters, and loss is a birthright we can’t afford to ignore. So we shouldn't ignore it. We must remember that although we are sometimes left with a void bigger than any black hole, we are the light that escapes. I think of that light, much like time itself, as though it were handfuls of glitter, floating aimlessly through our bodies and the bodies of everyone we've ever known. Our dogs, our late-night strawberry wine crushes, our family, Jordan—and yeah, even that weird Bumble date, Dan, (I guess.)

We must find a way to tether ourselves into the present, even those of us who are constantly searching. Because we will always be searching—for what we once knew, and what we haven't met yet. For me, it's in my dreams and it's always my dad. We're supposed to go to some play or football game or concert. Keys in hand, I call out for him and he doesn't answer. I can still smell his vanilla pipe tobacco lingering in this in-between space, but there's no trace of him for what seems like hours and then I wake up. (Although in one dream, we were headed to the Super Bowl and he briefly appeared just to taunt that my beloved Cowboys were gonna lose. Jokes on him because we hadn't been to the Super Bowl in decades.)

I’ll get back to the Moon soon enough. Until then, I’ll try to stop asking first dates, especially those I meet on Tinder, to be my “in case of emergency” contacts. Too soon, Cecily.

Image from Pixabay.

I still miss her.


My mother died from ovarian cancer when I was a young child.

I'm in my late 30s now, and I'm still navigating this loss as I move through life. I've lived most of my life without my mother at this point, but I still miss her.

Here are three things I've learned since losing Mam:

1. Grief is not linear and is not solely expressed through tears.

Someone you love has been taken away from you, and your heart has broken into pieces. It's natural to grieve, but we all grieve differently. Grief shows up in anger, sorrow, guilt, fear, and sometimes peace. It is unpredictable and, at times, exhausting.

I cried when my mother died, and I cried at her funeral when my school choir sang "Be Not Afraid." I didn't cry much in the immediate years that followed — not directly as a result of Mam's death, but probably indirectly related to it. I certainly felt fear and anger and other emotions related directly to my loss.

Then sadness hit me like a ton of bricks one day when I was in my early 20s. A compassionate friend asked me about Mam, and as I hadn't spoken about her to anyone outside the family, I broke down. It was a good release. The years have brought many stages of grieving.

Mother's Day is never easy. Shopping for my wedding dress without my mother brought up intense feelings of loss. And sometimes it just hits me hard, on a regular day, yanking me out of my pleasant thoughts. A mother in a dressing room with her daughter, and they're trying on clothes together, admiring how the other looks. The mother telling the daughter how beautiful she is.

Or a friend of mine, meeting her mother for lunch and I can't even imagine what that would be like! I can't even fathom the amazing joy of having lunch right now with Mam! And then I get that heaviness in my chest and my stomach feels bad.

There's no closure. My grieving stems from having loved so deeply. I have learned to tune into the emotions I'm feeling and to acknowledge the love, the pain, and the loss.

2. There are no replacements.

Nobody can replace your mother. We love our mothers in our own individual ways. Our mothers care for us when we're sick, guide us in life the best ways they can, listen to us, and love us unconditionally.

For a mother, her child is always her first priority. And we sense this. We feel it. We know it, even if she doesn't say it.

mother holding her baby girl

I was told that she called me her little angel.

Photo provided by author Carmel Breath.

My mother was beyond happy when I was born a healthy baby girl. I was told that she called me her little angel. She carried me in her womb for nine months.

By the time I was born, we had that unbreakable bond, and she knew me from that first second of my existence. There's never going to be a replacement for that person who loved me probably more than she loved herself. The joy in her eyes when she saw me, the warmth of her arms wrapped around me, the pain in her eyes when she had to say goodbye are all ways that I remember the deep love she had for me.

Mam prepared lunches for me every day to take to school, named muffins after me because they were my favorite, and surprised me with the best doll she could find when I was a few years old. She repaired my soft toys when they tore, taught me to have manners and sit up straight, wiped my eyes when I cried and my nose when I was sick.

Today I look for certain qualities in people. I look for a warmth, a radiance, a compassion and kindness that Mam had. I look for humor, a voice of sense, and strength of character. These are traits that my mother had. I find some of them in others.

But it's never the same. There'll never be another Mam. She's irreplaceable on so many levels.

3. There are other people who will love you and other people for you to love.

Family members and friends will love you. They might not know exactly what your needs are or how to address them, but it's worth reaching out to them. People struggle with different things.

Perhaps family members cannot love you or be there for you, and we may have to look around, let go, and reach further than we might want to in order to find the people who really love us, but there is someone out there to love you, and there's someone in need of your love.

I was blessed with the kindest, most devoted father who gave my brother and me all the love and care we needed. My dad is a gem in my life. He calls me to hear my news and to share his. He worries when I'm not feeling good and is overjoyed when I'm happiest. He listens to my concerns and trusts me to make the right decisions.

My dad has helped me so much in dealing with my loss, through caring for me and loving me unconditionally. I have the most wonderful fiancé who loves me to no end. And I've friends in my life who I know truly care about me.

I've been blessed with a lovely family, but it doesn't mean that I don't reach out to others. I've reconnected with old friends after years of distance. I've discovered things I have in common with others and opened up to new friendships.

Having people to love is truly healing. I was a kindergarten teacher for 10 years. I loved the children in my care, and they showed me so much love in return. By spreading love, we invite more love into our lives. Try volunteering or working in a school or a hospital. There are people everywhere in need of love.


Our world is so big and yet so small now in this age of technology. We can reach out to others across continents.

Our mothers were the first to show us the true meaning of love. In honor of our mothers, let's spread that love wherever we can.


This article originally appeared eight years ago.

Family

A letter to my mother-in-law who spoiled my sons

"It's pointless to dwell on regrets, but I often think about how I had it all wrong. I was so wrong in how I perceived your generosity."

An open letter on boundaries and respect.


You always stole my thunder. You gave them everything they wanted. You never said no when they asked for anything.

three young boysTina Plantamura's three sons.Tina Plantamura

A second helping of dessert. Candy before dinner. A few more minutes in the bath. Money for the ice cream truck.

I struggled to show you respect and appreciation while trying to make sure you didn't spoil my children. I thought you would turn them into “selfish brats" by giving them everything they wanted. I thought they might never learn to wait, to take turns, to share, because you granted their wishes as soon as they opened their mouths and pointed.

You held each one of my babies long after they fell asleep. Didn't you understand that I needed them to learn to fall asleep on their own?

You ran to them as soon as they made the tiniest sound. How would they ever learn to self-soothe?

I resented you for buying the best and most expensive gifts on their birthdays and on Christmas. How could I possibly compete with you?

"I thought they might never learn to wait, to take turns, to share, because you granted their wishes as soon as they opened their mouths and pointed."

And how they loved afternoons spent with you. You made their favorite things for dinner—three different meals for three different boys. And you always had a little surprise. A present, candy, or a special treat. I didn't want them to associate you with gifts and sweets. I thought they should love you for you. I tried to tell you this, but you wouldn't listen.

I spent a lot of time wondering why you did all these things and how I could get you to ease up. I know grandmothers are supposed to “spoil the kids" then send them home, but you were...ridiculous.

Until you were gone.

I had to hold my boys and tell them that their grandma died. It didn't seem possible—you were supposed to be there for all the other special moments: proms, graduations, weddings. But they lost their grandma too soon and too suddenly. They were not ready to say goodbye.

During those years when I wished you'd stop spoiling them, I never thought about how much you loved them. So much that you showed it in every way possible. Your cooking. The gifts. The candy and sweets. Your presence. The way you could recount every detail of a special moment, whether it was a perfect catch in the outfield or a sweet and slightly off-key note sung at a school concert. Your grandmotherly love for them knew no bounds. Your heart poured love from every place possible—your kitchen, your pocketbook, your words, and your tireless arms.

It's pointless to dwell on regrets, but I often think about how I had it all wrong. I was so wrong in how I perceived your generosity.

My kids, now in their teens, miss you dearly. And they don't miss your gifts or your money. They miss you.

They miss running to greet you at the door and hugging you before you could step in. They miss looking up at the bleachers and seeing you, one of their biggest fans, smiling and enthralled to catch their eye. They miss talking to you and hearing your words of wisdom, encouragement and love.

If I could speak to you one more time, I would tell you that every time a precious moment steals my heart, every time I watch them arrive at a new milestone, and every time they amaze me with their perseverance, talents, or triumphs, I think of you. And I wish that they could have you back.

Come back and love them one last time, like no one else in the world but a grandmother could. Bring your sweets and surprises. Reward them with gifts for the smallest accomplishments. Painstakingly prepare their favorite meals. Take them anywhere they want to go. All and only because you love them.

Come back and see how much they've grown. Watch each boy becoming his own version of a young man. Be in awe with me as we admire how family, friendship, time, and love helped them grow so beautifully over the years.

The more I long for you to come back, though, the more I realize that in a way, you never left.

three teenaged boys

Tina Plantamura's three teenaged sons.

Tina Plantamura

I understand now. I know you loved them in every way you could. I know that being their grandma gave you joy and purpose. And of course I know that you can't come back, but I do know that your love for them will always remain. Your love built them and sheltered them in ways that cannot be described. Your love is a big part of who they are and what they will become as they grow. For this, and for every treat and gift, and every time you held them too long or consoled them too much or let them stay up too late, I will always thank you.

And I will wish a million times that you could do it all again.


This article was written by Tina Plantamura and originally appeared nine years ago.

Photos courtesy of Chelsea Schaefer Photography

Michelle and Scott Ellermets got a beautiful symbol of hope on their wedding day.

Finding love again after losing a long-time partner isn't always easy. Being widowed comes with complicated emotions—sadness, worry, guilt, grief—and it can be hard to imagine ever falling in love again when you're in the middle of processing all of those feelings.

But sometimes loves comes along when we least expect it, which is how Michelle and Scott Ellermets ended up in a wildly viral moment.

Wedding photographer Chelsea Schaefer shared a compilation of photos and video from the Ellermets' beach wedding that took place on September 7, 2024 and it's been viewed by millions.


A beautiful story of love after loss

"After both unexpectedly losing their spouses of 20+ years, they met in their local grief group," the video begins. "They fell in love."

Schaefer explained that it rained the whole day of the wedding, but just minutes before the ceremony began, the sun came out and a double rainbow appeared.

Watch:

@chelseaschaefer24

I will never get over this day 🥹🌈


The couple's story is as sweet as two people who've lost their life partners can be.

Michelle had been married to her husband Jonathan for more than 23 years when he died unexpectedly of a heart attack in January of 2023. Scott was married to his wife Lisa for 29 years, but she passed away following an illness in June of the same year.

Michelle and Scott both joined a support group for grieving spouses in the Washington D.C. area.

"I joined Facebook in early December and a [local] widows [and] widowers website," Scott told Good Morning America. "And when I got on it, I saw that somebody was Facebook friends with my sister. It happened to be Michelle." He decided to send her a message and they hit it off right away.

They were just supportive friends at first. In fact, Michelle even told him that she wouldn't ever marry again. But love had other plans.

family at wedding on a beachThe Ellermets and their loved ones at their weddingPhotos courtesy of Chelsea Schaefer Photography

Friendship grew into another chance at love

"Our friendship, just at some point along the way, became more than that -- and we fell in love," Michelle told GMA. One thing that mutual loss had taught them was that time isn't promised, so they didn't hesitate when they knew they wanted to get married.

"At our age, when you know, why not?" said Michelle. We don't want to waste any time. You can't take your days for granted."

The double rainbow that greeted them at the end of their ceremony felt like "icing on the cake' and "a blessing from God" said Scott. Many of the millions who have watched the video agree, saying they see the double rainbow as a sign from their lost loved ones.

"Their late spouses gave them their blessings...love it"

"They approve & probably played a part in bringing you together from the other side. 🙏🏻🙏🏻"

"You can't tell me the two rainbows aren't their late partners supporting them ❤️"

"The double rainbow gave me immediate goosebumps 🌈🌈❤️❤️"

"If that’s not a sign I don’t know what is! God bless their marriage."

"Both late spouses sending their blessings!!! How beautiful!! I wish you both all the happiness!! ❤️🌈🌈"

"There is no clearer sign than a double rainbow when widowers find solace and love in each other. Both of their dearly departed loved ones wanted them to find happiness, and they’re just so happy that they have each other to lean on ♥️✨"

"When I remarried a widower, as a widow myself, there was a beautiful soft snow that fell for about one minute at the reception. It was so beautiful. And we believe it was a sign from our beloved spouses."

bride and groom on beach in front of rainbowThe double rainbow felt like a blessing, the couple said.Photos courtesy of Chelsea Schaefer Photography

The story is giving other widowed people hope

Others who have lost partners said they found hope in the story.

"🌈 Goosebumps here. I'm a widow and I find the rainbows so romantic. Their late partners showed out in the cutest way."

"I need this in my life. I lost my fiancé unexpectedly in 2022 and I want to fall in love again. I hope to find him one day again."

"This is so beautiful! I’m finding there are no such things as coincidences — this was absolutely the late spouses giving their blessing. I lost my husband to brain cancer 7 months ago and cannot imagine dating, especially while still raising our two young kids. But this still gives me hope. 🌈"

"This made me cry. I lost my husband and this give me hope. Thank you for sharing!! Wishing them all the happiness!!"

Rainbows are a symbol of hope because, as the saying goes, you can't have a rainbow without the rain first. No one wants their beachside wedding ruined by rain, and this couple may have been disappointed by the weather early in the day, but there was something beautiful in store for them.