Grief & Glitter

By Diana Register

You've followed their story, felt their loss and cheered for them as they healed.  And now those stories are here - beautifully recalled in this collection of love, hope and glitter. Real, personal accounts of surviving and flourishing in grief that will remind you that you are not alone. You will laugh.  You will cry.  You will love. You will be inspired.  But, most of all, your broken heart will feel a little less broken - even if just for a moment.

"Diana Register writes with grace and deep feeling about dealing with the bad things in life that happen to us all. She manages to put into words what we can easily recognize as our own deepest grief at the losses in our life whether a lost loved one or some other deeply felt personal tragedy or trauma." - Carolyn, California

"Diana's ability to tap into the raw gutting pain of grief and loss of our loved one while simultaneously allowing room for laughter and joy is a true gift. She has managed to not only communicate the balance grief and moving forward with life and love but also walk the walk, she is the real deal," - Michelle, Rhode Island

"I was looking for something or someone for some comfort, understanding and answers. What I came upon was a blurb from Diana Register's book on Facebook. It hit me...finally, with a deep sobbing cry, I had found my answer for the comfort feeling that I was looking for (my husband too was a first responder who passed away from Pancreatic Cancer in 2018) and someone who understood what I was going through. I can't thank her enough for sharing her experience, strength and hope with me. Thank you." - Julie, Delaware

"I bought Grief Life shortly after reading a post on Love What Matter's site. I was not prepared for the emotional response my soul would have to not only reading it but literally shaking my head in agreement with almost every sentence. I cried, I laughed, I cried again. But in the end, it was EXACTLY the cleansing my heart needed, even though I had no idea at the time...." - Melissa, Missouri

"Diana writes in Grief Life about her own journey of loss with such powerful and raw emotions; she reminds us days will be tough, but they can get better and it's ok to feel how you feel. In the end she gives hope and inspiration that even from such a grave loss there can be new beginnings and happiness for all of us on this path." Kevin, New Jersey

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crazy Ink
• Release date: Nov 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393307020

Book preview

If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.

Mik Everett

I believe that grief is the last act of love you can give.

My grief is immense.

Still.

And, I have learned that it’s okay.

I have also learned that it’s okay to laugh. And to cry. And to be angry. And to be okay. And then not be okay. Even sometimes at the same time.

And, that all of that is normal.

Even when it doesn’t feel like it.

I have learned that it’s okay to feel again, to breathe again, to live again, and to love again.

And, that we can do those things while we are still loving the ones we lost.

We can do that while we are missing them.

We can do that while we are still wishing they were alive.

We can do that in the midst of the new life we’re living.

We can make new memories while still holding onto the old ones.

Listen to me.

You are not dishonoring their memory by living again and being happy. I promise you that not living, not laughing, and not loving is the biggest disservice you can do to the people who wish they were still here living with you.

Live.

Above all, I have learned that sharing your story is healing.

For yourself.

For the people you love.

For the people you don’t even know.

I’m grateful for them. For you. And, for YOUR stories.

I hope you will enjoy mine.

Forward

Diana came into my life like a force. I was a newly hired managing editor of Love What Matters. Her story was one of the first I read from the submission box. It literally took my breath away. The raw, pure emotion—her ability to transport the reader, me, from my desk into the bedroom with her as she’s struggling (pleading) with her husband, who I’ve also come to know so well even in his passing, to allow her to call 911 as his health was failing from a recent pancreatic cancer diagnosis, was so incredibly moving. I knew in that moment... this woman, this Diana Register... was a force, and I wanted to be a part of getting her powerful story shared as widely as possible. People needed to hear her message. Feel her strength. Channel her resiliency.

Diana and I became fast friends. She’s one of those people who comes into your life and holds you to a higher standard, insists you keep your word, forces you to do better—be better. She’s tenacious in that way. But with a lot of stories to juggle and hundreds of submissions coming in daily, it was hard to always meet Diana’s needs when she’d ask my opinion or when she deserved sound editing advice. I’d always save her for the end of the day when I could really focus and give her the attention she deserved because I always knew, she’d deliver. It would be worth it. I’d save her emails for the cab or subway ride home late night as my decompression time because Diana was never work. It was always a pleasure learning more about her and her tremendous story. My God this woman has such a powerful story.

Opening her pieces, I honestly never knew what to expect. She somehow had this ability to turn the most mundane, trivial moments in our typical lives into something so profound, so moving, it would knock the breath out of you. By the end, I’d either be bawling with tears streaming down my cheeks, or laughing so hard that again, tears were streaming down my cheeks, and sometimes both emotions would occur within one paragraph! That’s the infamous Diana Double Whammy. The most reiterated comments on her stories were, Man, I didn’t see that one coming.

Our Love What Matters readers became loyal Diana fans, able to spot her trademark style within the first few sentences. When it’s Diana writing, you just know. You also know, you won’t be disappointed. I always looked forward to reading the comments on her stories after we’d post them because people were so moved and could relate to her intricate details—whether it be parenting teenagers and losing her mind over the endless dishes in the sink, to recounting her young daughter’s strength in holding her father’s hand as she told him goodbye, one last time, a moment no daughter should endure—people could always relate.

That’s the thing. Diana knows how to connect with others. I hate to say it’s because of all the trauma, grief, and life she’s experienced, but it’s made her stronger, with this innate ability to reach people on their level, wherever they are in their process of grieving—and believe me, one thing I learned from Diana is that we’re all grieving something, or someone, whether we realize it or not—and she punches you in the gut with these realizations you’d never be able to verbalize yourself. She gets it. She gets us. Because she is us.

I’ve never even met her, and I consider her a dear friend. I can’t wait until we’re one day able to hug, and I can personally thank her in person. For all she’s given me, for all she’s given Love What Matters, and for all she continues to give to her readers—hope, hilarity, resiliency, and a gut check. All in one satisfying, little package. Every damn time.

-  Eliza Murphy

Former Senior Editor, Love What Matters

Seize upon that moment long ago, one breath away and there you will be, so young and carefree, again you will see, that place in time... so gold. – Stevie Wonder

When my husband died, his family and I decided to place him in a mausoleum. By doing so, I quickly found out there was really no place to leave flowers as the cemetery had decided not to allow vases on the front of their headstones. You can leave flowers on the ground, but they get picked up every week and whisked away. So, we would visit him and not really leave anything. Well, I did, but that’s a secret between him and me.

When somebody dies and you go to visit their final resting place, you instinctively want to leave something behind. Flowers, gifts, cards—whatever it is, there’s just the feeling that you want to do something to show them you were there. I don’t know why. It just feels right.

One afternoon in the fall after he died, my entire house had a meltdown. I can’t remember why, but it was just one of those days. I was crying, my daughter was crying, I even think the dogs were crying to be honest. Nothing was going right. Nothing felt right. Everything was just a mess. I sat down next to my daughter, and together, we just cried. I looked at her, wishing there was something I could do to fix her pain at that moment. I thought about ice cream. Maybe a movie. Maybe she wanted a friend to come over. But the only thing I could muster through my tears was the simple question, Do you want to go see your dad? With her eyes swollen and her cheeks puffy from crying, she nodded. We left everything as it was and hopped into the car and started on the 30-minute drive to the cemetery. We didn’t say much to each other, we just drove. As fast as legally possible, we just drove. We just wanted to be with him.

We pulled into the beautiful, tree lined cemetery and drove past the old headstones until we made our way to the mausoleum that housed my sweet husband. We quietly got out of the car and sat in front of him, still crying, placing our hands on the stone trying to touch him. I wanted to scream, ‘come out of there right now,’ but I knew it would do no good. So, we just sat, reflected, and consoled each other while our hearts broke not knowing they could break any more than they already were.

As we got up to leave, it struck me that once again, we didn’t have anything to leave behind. Just the tear-stained concrete in front of his tomb and parts of our souls.

We hugged each other as we walked back to the car and as she opened the door, there it was. Two vials of glitter.

I laughed. I laughed a lot. Because, you see, glitter meant something to us and it is no coincidence it showed up in that very moment, right when we needed it.

At the time, my daughter was a competitive gymnast. She lived and breathed gymnastics and competed all over the West. They didn’t allow the girls to wear nail polish or lots of make up during competitions, but they did allow them to wear glitter in their hair. So, we stocked up on spray glitter, and each time before competition, she and I would stand outside on the porch and spray glitter in her hair. I don’t know if it was the first or second time we did it, but I remember getting a phone call from Chad one time after he had gone to work and asked why there was glitter all over his work bag.

Imagine this for a minute. My husband was a cop. And sometimes he had to work on competition days, especially after he got sick and ran out of sick time. Unbeknownst to us, the glitter we sprayed on her hair would fall off everywhere, yet instead of ending up all over the house, it was ending up in his work bag. All over his jacket, his handcuffs, ticket book and on his shirt when she hugged him goodbye. And nobody noticed until he got to work and sparkled in the sunlight on a traffic stop.

I imagine that was a sight to see. A big, strong cop out there enforcing the law, covered in glitter and twinkling the whole time. He probably hated it. It probably bugged him. The guys probably made fun of him. But, guess what? He kept hugging her when he left the house, competition day or not. Glitter or not. Sparkly traffic stops or not.

So, on this particular day at the cemetery, when we saw the glitter as she opened the car door, we knew we couldn’t pass it up. We finally knew what we were leaving behind during our visits. It was our thing. Our silly family thing. And I don’t doubt for one second he put it there to make sure we knew he was sending her a hug. So, we sent him a hug right back.

I bet he secretly likes it. I bet he’s smiling. I bet he thinks it’s funny. And I bet he’s telling all his friends in Heaven the story about the time he was covered in glitter while writing a ticket in the sun.

It’s hard sometimes to find the right way to honor your loved ones. It’s hard to figure out the best way to show them and the world how much you loved them. Keep your eyes open, friends. It will come to you. I promise. It will come. It might be when you least expect it, in the middle of the worst day. And, it might come in the form of something you least expect, like a vial of glitter. You just have to believe.

Sexiness wears thin after a while and beauty fades, but to be married to a man who makes you laugh every day, ah, now that’s a real treat. – Joanne Woodward

Birthing stories. We all have them. We’re all proud of them. We all want to share them. For the men reading this—they’re our fishing stories. Like you, we all want to tell about the time we caught the bigger fish. I mean, come on, have you ever see a bunch of women sitting around talking about them? We subconsciously do the same thing you do. We puff out our chests. Shuffle our weight in our hips. Pull up our pants. Clear our throats. Expand our arms wide to tell you the baby was this big. Oh yes, we all have the better story. We all had the bigger baby. We all had the longer labor. We were all bloodier. We might not be able to remember where we put the damn car keys, but we can recall every single moment of those twenty-three hours in the war zone.

But I, yes, I, have the best story of them all. With my daughter’s sweet 16 right around the corner, I couldn’t help but reminisce about that day. It wasn’t supposed to be her birthday. No, she was three weeks early and apparently, after already giving birth twice before, I have a steel uterus and could not feel a thing, even though I had been dilated to a four for ten days already. Yep, just walking around for ten days with an open uterus, going about my business, not worried at all that the baby might fall out. So, when the doctor told me at my normal checkup that I was in labor, I didn’t really believe her. Nobody seemed too concerned, and they were comfortable with sending me home, an hour away, and told me to come back if my contractions got closer. My husband, however, decided to push to send me to the hospital, so I could get put on the ‘little monitor thing,’ as he called it, and my doctor finally agreed.

So, there we were, a family of four in a tiny observation room. At least the nurses brought coloring books for my then five and seven-year-olds, and if you didn’t know it, you can put the bench thing down in the shower, and it doubles as a craft table. My husband was enthralled with the printout that kept spitting out of the machine showing us the contractions and while I still wasn’t feeling anything, he had somehow earned his medical degree and insisted that I was about to pop that baby out right then and there. Problem was, my doctor was not going to have it and because of my past history, insisted on a C-Section. Now, listen, I was not one of those moms who felt like I was missing something by not pushing an 8-pound human being out of my vagina. No. I was totally fine with them cutting me open and pulling the slippery sucker out, especially after my second was a V-BAC and came so fast there was no time for an epidural or any other drug. Nope, he literally swam out and practically flew across the room and my doctor didn’t know what hit him when the placenta, literally, hit him. Right square in the chest.

So, no, I was fine with the fact that I needed to do a C-Section. The team of doctors came in and told me that the labor was progressing so fast that they were going to do it ‘in an hour,’ but we had to find somebody to come get my other kids, otherwise my husband was going to miss it. In a flurry, we started calling everybody we knew that might be in the area, and thankfully, he was able to get ahold of his nephew who (I’m sure legally) got to the hospital as fast as he could to receive the other kids. Of course, there was that small delay, when in his haste he ended up following the signs to ‘deliveries’ and ended up at the receiving bay for hospital supplies. But once he found the right place, my husband wasted no time running the kids down while I was being prepared for surgery.

My anesthesiologist came in, introduced himself, gave me something to take the edge off and suddenly, I realized I knew him. I knew I had met him before. I struggled as the Versed trickled through my veins to place where I knew him from, but I concentrated. And concentrated. And then it hit me.

It was ‘Goose’ from Top Gun. Yes, I know how crazy that sounds, but if you remember, he did go on to be a doctor on E.R., and while I couldn’t remember his character name from there, ‘Goose’ worked just fine. As he promised me he would take really good care of me through the procedure, I believed him. Afterall, he always put Maverick first, too.

Anyway, my doctor, who incidentally didn’t speak much English (she was from China, I believe, and was really awesome, but we just didn’t talk much) came in and said it was time to go but promised me, over and over and over again, that they would not start the surgery until my husband found his way back up to the floor.

So off we went to the operating room. They got me settled, taped down my arms, put up the blue paper screen in front of me, and Goose looked down at me and smiled, asking me if I could feel anything. ‘No, Goose, we’re ready for take-off.’ ‘Roger that,’ he said as he smiled—but only with his eyes since I couldn’t see his mouth anymore as it was covered by a mask. My doctor literally clasped her hands together while we waited, and we all tried to make conversation through the awkwardness of the fact that we couldn’t really understand each other. I couldn’t move my arms or my legs; I was loopy, and my anesthesiologist was actually a hot shot Navy-man; it was a little weird. Finally, the doctor asked the nurse to go look for my husband, and she did, only to find him outside the hospital with his nephew smoking a congratulatory cigar. Hey, nothing like not being an alarmist right? But, maybe save the celebration for after the baby is actually here? The way I understand it, the nurse grabbed him and told him he was going to miss it if he didn’t hurry up. As they rushed back upstairs, she handed him some paper scrubs to throw on so he could go into the operating room. It was a standard pack, you know—paper pants, a paper poncho looking thing, hat, shoes—the works. Thankfully, he got them on fast and into the operating room he came.

Goose smiled.

Once all the players were in place, and we were ready to go, I must have panicked a little bit because Goose put an oxygen mask on me and immediately, it smelled like something was burning. I told my husband several times something was burning, he just patted me on the head and said everything was alright. I should have known by the smile he gave Goose and the wink Goose gave him back that it was actually my flesh burning while they used a laser to open up my abdomen. But, because I believed them, I just kept taking deep breaths as they did their business to get to the baby. A tug here, a push there. She was coming. My husband wanted to see. I mean who wouldn’t, right? He wanted to watch his daughter being born even if I was disemboweled. He leaned over to look, then shot back to the position he was in with a look on his face I had never seen before. Fear, maybe. Shock. Panic. Oh God, what was it? Was the baby okay? Was something wrong? The blood left his face. He was pale. Almost confused. I wanted to scream out for Goose to check his blood pressure but instead, I just blurted it out.

What is wrong? Is something wrong? He didn’t answer me right away. ‘Chad, seriously, tell me what’s wrong.’ He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and leaned in. Goose did, too. With the three of our heads practically touching, he whispered it, so quietly, I couldn’t hear him. Goose must have because he sat up with his eyes wide open and pushed himself back in his rolling chair as far as he could go. So, I asked again. This time, he leaned in closer and said it just a little bit louder while the doctor, speaking in Chinese, was giving a run down to the team with the progress of the baby, still tugging on her to pull her out.

Babe? he asked.

Oh, my God, spit it out. Yes? What is going on?

He cleared his throat. Did you know you aren’t supposed to take your clothes off when you put these paper scrubs on?

You’re joking.

No. And, they’re ripping.

Goose snickered. I shot him an upside-down dirty look.

Are you serious?

Yes. I was in a hurry. I didn’t even realize they were paper.

More updates in Chinese.

So, you’re telling me... I whispered the rest, that you’re naked?

Yes.

I don’t remember what was running through my medicated head, but I laughed. Out loud. Violently. I didn’t even know you could have a guttural laugh when your guts are hanging out.

Really? Naked?

Yes, dear. Naked. He leaned in again. And it’s starting to chafe.

More laughter. More talking in Chinese. More smiles from Goose as he untangled tubes. I tried to reach out to touch Chad, you know, to offer some support, but my arms were still strapped down and at best, I could only somewhat move my head. I did my best to rub my head against his chest like a cat loving on its owner, but that only made the chaffing, and the ripping worse.

And just as quickly as he said it, our attention turned because the baby was here. Of course, the doctor was holding her by one leg upside down trying to get her to cry, which was totally appropriate in the chaos. They whisked the baby, who was three weeks early, away over to the incubator where they started beating her on her back with some device to get her to cry. I guess this stirred some kind of animalistic dad protector thing in Chad because he instinctively flew off his chair to rush to the baby, paying no attention to the fact that he was quickly losing his pants.

And as they rushed the baby out of the operating room and to the NICU, he was a true champion, following his newly born baby girl all the while holding his scrubs together so not to flash the entire medical team at Pomerado Hospital.

Incidentally, she was fine. All they had to do was give her a bath, which made her so mad she spit out all the fluid in her lungs and from that point on, has breathed just fine.

My husband on the other hand was—scarred for life.

Not very long before Chad died, he recounted this story to a group of friends in only the way he could. He was a magical storyteller. He could tell a story four different times, four different ways in the matter of a ten-minute period and have everybody in hysterics. I will never be able to tell this one the way he did, but I did my best during his eulogy. What was supposed to be a sad, sullen moment turned into a barrage of laughter from his friends and family, some of whom knew the story and many who did not. But, what I found was that the more we laughed, the more I healed. The more I talked about him, the more people did, too. And, really, that’s what we want. We want to hear their names. We want people to remember them. We want people to say, I miss him, too. We want to keep them alive in whatever way we can. I choose to write about it. I choose to talk until I’m blue in the face about what kind of man he was, and really, still is. Because as we tell stories about the people we love, it brings them back to life in some ways. It’s magical, really. If I can offer you one piece of advice, don’t be afraid to talk about them. Don’t be afraid to say their names.

Don’t be afraid to remember them, and by God, don’t be afraid to laugh. You are not grieving any less if you laugh. I promise you that. Sometimes, I feel guilty when I am happy. Sometimes, I can’t navigate my feelings of happiness even though he’s not here. But I think that’s what healing is. I think sharing memories and laughing is what seals up all the little holes in our broken hearts. And I think that’s okay. Let it be okay for you, too.

All you need is love. But a little chocolate now and then doesn't hurt.

― Charles M. Schulz

When I was a little girl, we all knew if my mom came home with a chocolate cake, we better shut up. Of course, if all us kids could just disappear for a few hours, that was better, but being quiet was a good start. We all knew what chocolate cake meant. Oh, yes. Something had not gone right throughout the day, and Momma was none too happy.

My brother would do the recon. You know, sneak down the hall, hide behind the china hutch, peek around the swinging kitchen door until he had an unobstructed view of the counters. He would dart his