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Week 165: Drive to Pasadena

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The Drive to Pasadena


When you’ve lost a child, you become hyper-aware of the ones who are still here. Their hurt registers more sharply. Their silence sounds louder. Their need doesn’t have to be spoken for you to hear it.


That’s what happened last weekend, when one phone call from my son led us to pack a bag and drive hundreds of miles—just to show up.





The Call



It started with a phone call last Friday night.


Our son, who’s in grad school, was staying late at the lab, and the whole weekend loomed ahead of him: studying, work, chores, grocery shopping—adulting.


I think he just couldn’t bear it.


I don’t think he even knew that when he called—he just wanted connection, a familiar voice. But as we talked, I could feel my concern growing. Underneath it all, I sensed he didn’t need advice or a pep talk. He needed to see some friendly faces.


I hung up without saying anything to him and looked at my husband.


He said, “I’m on it. I think we can drive to Southern Cal from Northern Cal—a six-hour drive, spend some time with our son, and head back.”


I loved that. Not so much the do it in a day part—but he read my mind, and he was already moving.





Making the Plan



I texted our son:

“See you Sunday. We’re gonna come visit for the day.”


He replied:

“No, you don’t need to do that. It’s such a long way…”


The usual bit. But I was firm.

“We want to see you. I miss you. We’re coming.”


He texted back:

“Thank you. I can’t wait to see you guys.”


We decided to leave Sunday. I already had plans with friends—a hike—on the Saturday, and when I told them what we were doing, they thought I was a little crazy.


“You’re not even spending the night?”

“We might,” I said. “We’ll bring an overnight bag. But we’re going to try to do it in a day, if we can.”





The Drive



That Sunday, we got up at 3:30 a.m. It definitely felt like we were going on a trip. Only instead of heading to the airport and a runway, we were taking the I-5 south.


We packed an overnight bag and a pillow, and that was it.


I slept the first ninety minutes—until Bruce let out an expletive. The heavy, dense tule fog had descended on the road, and it felt like we were driving through a tunnel. That woke me up fast.


We finally got out of it and pulled into a Starbucks so I could caffeinate and take over driving.


I watched the sun rise as we headed south, and it was beautiful—one of those quiet moments where gratitude just floods in. The dawn, the road, the stillness of it all. I let myself take it in.


And then the fog hit again.


So thick and dense I could barely see in front of me. I turned on the emergency flashers and drove carefully, inching forward until we finally hit the Grapevine.


Bruce took over again from there, all the way to our final destination.


We made great time—arrived a little before 10 a.m.


Zach came out to meet us. We hugged long and hard, and of course—he was hungry.


So we got bagels.





A Day Together



It was a beautiful day in Southern California for January—79 and sunny.


After bagels, we hiked and wandered through Old Town, then grabbed some pizza.


Later, back at my son’s apartment, he opened up. He shared his inner doubts and concerns—about feeling lonely, unsure if he belonged, wondering if he’d made the right decision. Even the transition from college to grad school has been harder than he expected.


I can’t take that pain away from him.


But I can listen. I can walk beside him.


Even though I can’t fully be in his shoes, I can remind him how proud I am of who he is—not just for what he’s doing, but for who he’s becoming.





The Goodbye



Shortly after, we said our goodbyes.


I hugged him extra long and hard.


I would die for that kid—and I already know what that sentence costs.


It saddens me, because one of mine did die before me. My oldest.


So now, the two who are still here… they’re my number one priority.


But it’s different than when they were little. The needs aren’t physical anymore—they’re emotional. Quiet. Sometimes invisible.


And so I show up. I listen. I drive through fog at 4 a.m. if I have to.


Because love doesn’t stop evolving.


And neither does grief.


Writing is how I keep making sense of all this—how I keep showing up.


If you want to keep following along—through parenting, grief, love, and all the messy in-betweens—I’d love to have you here.

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