What Ifs and Memories: Reflecting on Loss and Love

The past has a way of lingering, doesn’t it? Like a shadow that stretches further than we expect, its outline soft yet insistent. Loretta Kay Daniels Wear—Mommy to Benjamin, my brilliant son—was a force of nature, a whirlwind of love, laughter, and, yes, chaos. Diagnosed with bipolar disorder, she steadfastly refused medication, a decision that shaped not only her life but ours as well. And now, as I sit here at 75, with more questions than answers, I can’t help but wonder: What if?

Loretta would be 60 this Christmas. Sixty. A Nurse Practitioner, most likely. She had the intelligence, the drive, the compassion to thrive in that role. She would’ve been making great money, providing for herself, for us, maybe helping Benjamin and her other children and grandchildren. And maybe, just maybe, we’d still be together. But would we? Hard to know.

Grief is a tricky companion. It dulls with time, but it never leaves. It hovers, slipping into the quiet moments, bringing with it a bittersweet mix of memories. I remember Loretta’s unyielding strength, the way she threw herself into motherhood, into life, even when the weight of her illness bore down on her. And I remember the chaos, the storms that would come with no warning, leaving us scrambling for shelter.

Benjamin, our miracle, our genius. I didn’t fully grasp the depth of his gifts until just a few months before Loretta passed in 2012. How she would’ve loved to see him now, to witness the man he’s become. Living in Dayton, Ohio, carving out his place in the world. She would’ve been so proud. And yet, I wonder if she saw it too, if some part of her knew, even as the weight of her struggles pressed heavier and heavier.

Had she lived, life might’ve been different. I imagine us in a small, cozy house, her Nurse Practitioner’s salary affording us a level of comfort we never quite managed. I’d be retired, perhaps writing more, exploring the stories I’ve carried for so long. We might’ve found a rhythm, a way to navigate her illness together. Or maybe we wouldn’t. Maybe the storms would’ve been too great. Hard to know.

The ‘what ifs’ are endless, aren’t they? But they’re also a trap, a maze with no exit. And so, I try not to linger there too long. Instead, I focus on the now. On Benjamin, on his brilliance, his future. On the memories of Loretta, both the joyous and the painful. On the life I’ve built in the aftermath, imperfect but mine.

Loretta’s absence is a wound, but it’s also a reminder. Of love, of loss, of the fragile, fleeting nature of it all. It’s a reminder to cherish the moments we have, the people we hold dear. And it’s a reminder that, even in the darkest times, there’s light to be found. In a son’s laughter, in the warmth of a memory, in the quiet strength that carries us forward.

🥲