The Cost of Watching It Happen

Cliff Potts, editor-in-chief, WPS News
Baybay City, Leyte, Philippines — June 20, 2026 — 8:35 p.m.

There is a particular kind of grief that does not begin at death.

It begins earlier.

It begins the moment you see something that worries you. A symptom. A change. A small sign that could mean nothing — or everything.

You mention it.

You suggest a doctor’s visit.
You suggest a test.
You suggest not waiting.

And then life continues.

The appointment is postponed. The explanation sounds reasonable. Hope fills the gaps where certainty should be.

Until it doesn’t.

Watching illness unfold after that point carries a different weight. It is not only sorrow. It is the memory of having seen the warning.

That memory lingers.

It asks questions that cannot be answered.
Would earlier action have helped?
Would different choices have changed the timeline?
Was there a moment when the path could have shifted?

No one can fully know.

Biology is complex. Outcomes are uncertain. Even early detection does not guarantee survival.

But the mind replays the first moment anyway.

It replays the conversation.
It replays the hesitation.
It replays the ordinary day that later became significant.

This is the cost of watching it happen.

It is the cost of loving someone enough to notice.

Survivors often carry two truths at once.

The first truth: no one controls another adult’s medical decisions. Each person has autonomy.

The second truth: autonomy does not shield the people who remain from the consequences.

That tension is heavy.

It does not accuse. It does not condemn. It simply exists.

In the aftermath, prevention becomes sacred. Routine checkups are no longer routine. Early testing is no longer optional. Medical literacy is no longer academic.

It is survival.

Some may call that rigid. Others may call it overcautious.

But when you have watched a disease advance, caution feels rational.

Grief reshapes what feels urgent.

It makes you value time differently. It makes you see health differently. It makes you understand how quickly “we have time” can turn into “we don’t.”

There is no way to eliminate the what-ifs entirely. They soften over time, but they rarely disappear.

What remains is a quiet resolve.

Notice earlier.
Act sooner.
Take warnings seriously.

Not out of fear.

Out of respect for how fragile life can be.

The cost of watching it happen is not only sorrow.

It is permanent clarity.

The “Charlie Party” We Gave Him

https://lauraleacupp.wordpress.com/2026/06/11/the-charlie-party-we-gave-him/

The First Green Thorn

I returned
expecting only stone.

The same arch.
The same hollow.
The same bouquet
browned at the edges
like a prayer
left too long
in the weather.

I had learned
the discipline of kneeling.

I had learned
how to make peace
with the wrong place.

There is a strange holiness
in returning
to what cannot answer.

There is a strange faith
in speaking
to silence
until silence becomes
less empty.

But this morning,
at the foot of the cenotaph,
where the rain had gathered
in the crack
between two stones,

something had risen.

Not a flower.

Not yet.

Only a thorned green stem,
small enough
to be missed
by anyone
who came looking
for a miracle.

It leaned toward the light
with the awkward courage
of a thing
that had not been told
it was impossible.

I almost wept
from fear.

Grief I knew.
Absence I knew.
The old wound
had become a room
I could enter
without striking a match.

But life—
life arriving
without permission,
life answering
when I had stopped
asking,
life wearing thorns
before blossoms—

this was a more terrible mercy.

For if something grows here,
then I must change.

If the stone has cracked,
then I cannot spend forever
calling it final.

If roots have found me,
if green has entered
the vocabulary of my mourning,
then perhaps I have been wrong
about the dead.

Perhaps not all that is buried
is finished.

Perhaps not all that is empty
is abandoned.

Perhaps the former self
does not return
as the boy who believed,
but as the wound
that has learned
to shelter a seed.

I touched the stem
and blood rose
from my finger.

So this, too,
is resurrection:

not the absence of pain,
but pain made porous
to light.

Not the grave undone
all at once,
but a thorn
breaking through stone,

a small green alphabet
beginning again

where the epitaph
ran out of words.

The Cenotaph Triad

The Cenotaph

The Roots Beneath the Stone

The First Green Thorn

Watching an episode of the new Matlock where Maddie talks about the difference between grief and trauma after losing a child to addiction. That really resonated with me.

I’m realizing that grief and trauma are not the same thing. Loving someone through years of addiction and mental illness leaves behind its own kind of hurt, even after they’re gone.

Losing my brother and my dad so close together changed me in ways I’m still working through. But slowly, I am starting to feel more like myself again. I’m trying to find my way back to the peace I feel when I’m out with my camera.

I’m sharing a photograph I took some time ago titled Looking Back. Lately, I think part of healing has been trying to find my way back to the sense of peace, quiet, and grounding I’ve always felt when I’m out with my camera.

I just need to remember to allow myself more grace.

#Grief #HealingJourney #MentalHealth
#TraumaRecovery #LifeAfterLoss

Probably not the best time for me to be watching *The Pitt*. There’s a scene with a brother and sister in the ER with their dad, and a line about how they become the witnesses to each other’s lives — the ones who hold the shared memories.

That one hit hard.

One of the hardest things right now is realizing I don’t have that anymore. Even though my brother and I hadn’t spoken in years, he was still my brother. He was already gone when Dad died, so I stood there without that shared witness to our life.

Yeah… this one’s getting put on hold for now. Too much, too soon.

I'd love to hear some suggestions for TV shows or movies that I could watch instead. I have most of the major streaming services.

#GriefJourney #LifeAfterLoss #GriefSupport #HealingInProgress #OneDayAtATime

Some of you may remember Margey the Meerkat (on the left). She used to come along with me on photo shoots. When I’m ready to get back out there with my camera, she’ll have some company — Top Dog, as Dad called him.

Top Dog was Dad’s — the little stuffy he made sure to bring with him when he moved to Virginia to live with us. I’m pretty sure he had originally given it to Mom during one of her hospital stays back in the 90s.

It just feels right that the two of them will come along with me on future photo adventures.

#PhotographyLife #PhotoCompanion #GriefJourney #LifeAfterLoss #MemoryKeeping #HealingThroughArt #CreativeJourney

The losses keep coming, each one testing my strength. Today my uncle passed away — just over a month after losing my dad, his brother. It feels heavy, but I will keep going.

But I’m still here. Still breathing. Still choosing to look for small things to hold onto.

1. Dad and my uncle are no longer separated by illness or time.
2. I am stronger than I feel in the middle of the night.
3. I am not walking through this completely alone.
Bonus: This sunrise on the Blue Ridge Parkway is one of the images in my “filmstrip in my head” — the kind I think about when I wake in the night. It reminds me that light returns, and with it comes quiet gratitude and hope for the day ahead.

#3GoodThings #Grief #LifeAfterLoss #OneDayAtATime #FindingLight #ThreeGoodThings #virginia #blueridgemountains

A month ago today, Dad died.

Somehow that feels both recent and far away, and I’m trying not to let the passing days make him feel further from me.

This photo was taken in 2022, just south of Grayling, Michigan. I was driving him to Virginia so he could live with us. The road stretched out ahead of us, and we had no idea what the next years would hold. But we were happy to be on the journey together.

A few days before that trip, he left me a voicemail telling me he loved me and was happy I was coming for him. I still have that message. It’s my most precious treasure.

Lately, when memories hit, my chest tightens and I sigh to let the pressure out. Sometimes I cry anyway. And that’s good.

I’m especially grateful for the people who have understood where I’m at without me having to explain it, and who have quietly offered their support.

One month. Still figuring out how to carry this.

#Grief #OneMonthLater #RememberingDad #LifeAfterLoss

Four Years Later: Connor, Silence, and the Things Addiction Leaves Behind

https://jaimedavid.blog/2026/02/21/12/47/41/analysis/jaimedavid327/9957/four-years-later-connor-silence-and-the-things-addiction-leaves-behind/

1. Today was one of the hardest tasks. We brought Dad’s ashes home.

2. I’m grateful I didn’t do it alone.

3. He’ll be laid to rest beside Mom later in spring or summer — his final wish.

#Grief #Bereavement #Remembering #LifeAfterLoss #today