Grief has come for our family.
It showed up in the night and cruelly replaced our joy with heartache. It came for his parents first. And then for the rest of us. Just like the virus that snuck in and stopped his heart, it spread quickly, with no regard for the havoc it was wreaking on our world. Our sweet, loving 17-month-old grandson was gone.
Somehow, overnight, our family became part of a group we never wanted to join. How do people get through this? Our son and his wife will never be the same, and it’s just not fair. Yes, I know life isn’t fair, but why does it have to be such a bitch?
He was perfect. Sweet, fun, cute, kind, curious—I mean, toddlers usually are. But he was ours, which made him the sweetest, the kindest, the cutest… just perfect. And his parents were great parents. They did everything right. They had it all—a house big enough to hold all the kids they wanted, a huge lot in a secluded neighborhood with tons of room to run and play. Lois gave up her career for the best job in the world: a stay-at-home mom. Clark had recently been promoted and was thriving at work. Life was good.
Watching them work their way through grief and pain and loss is heart-wrenching. Yes, we are all grieving, and I am still sad beyond belief. But watching our son and daughter-in-law bury their child is an added layer of grief that hit me completely unexpectedly. As a parent, you want to make it better for them, but you feel so helpless knowing that nothing will ever make this better. I want to crawl through the phone line and pop out on the other end to hug and comfort them and smother them with love. Besides being physically impossible, it just isn’t enough.
I am awed by how they are handling things, though. They continue to show up for themselves and for others, even while they are in the depths of grief and despair. They continue to do all the right things… they go to church, Clark goes to work, Lois keeps the house. They meet up with friends and go through all of the motions. I don’t know how they do it. All I know is that it makes them so much more precious to me.
It makes everyone more precious to me—especially our family. Not one day goes by without sending out happy and loving thoughts for each and every one of them.
I wish with my whole heart that we were not in this situation. But you can’t turn back the clock. You can only listen to others who started down this path before you and take their hard-earned advice. Love each other. Hold your kids tight. Take pictures… heck, make sure you are in them. Nobody but you will care if you look fat or your hair is a frizzy mess. Make sure you have those snapshots of time together. Because one day, you may not be able to hear that voice, feel those chubby hands in yours, or enjoy time together again.
I have spent way too much time stressing over work in the past few years and taking it too seriously. Cayne’s death was literally a slap in the face, showing me what is really important. Work is just work. It’s a series of tasks to complete in exchange for financial reward. At the end of my life, I want to close my eyes and remember the people I loved and who loved me back. I won’t care about my inbox, my to-do list, or projects that met deadlines. Don’t get me wrong—doing a good job and working hard are very important. But at the end of the day, work is just work, and life is what happens outside of it. My daddy used to say, “Always take your work, but never yourself, seriously.”
So, thank you, Cayne, for showing us all what is really important in life.
You will always have a place in our hearts.
You will always be our first grandson.
And you will always be a member of our family.
Cayne Aaron Brown
September 2, 2024 – January 29, 2026
With love, Roxie 💙
Roxie Rides Again 