When she died in early March, the ground was far too muddy to bury her, so we had to wait. We planned to do it the first weekend in May, but my former father-in-law ended up in the hospital and nearly died himself. Now that he’s on the road to recovery, he rescheduled for today instead.

I really didn’t think the burial would affect me much because I feel like I’ve already dealt with her death, for the most part. There’s something so raw about watching a loved one’s body being lowered into the ground though; it definitely gives a sense of finality, a sentiment echoed audibly by Cody’s wailing. I wasn’t prepared for the waves of sadness and loss that I felt all over again at seeing her put into her final resting place.

As illustrated in the movie It’s a Wonderful Life, the impact of one person’s life cannot be underestimated. The little group gathered at her graveside today was just a fraction of the many people she’s touched, and we will all forever be profoundly affected by the life that was hers.

I took the kids to say goodbye to their grandma tonight. She is basically asleep most of the time and can’t talk or see anymore, though she did squeeze people’s hands in recognition here and there. Her kidneys have shut down, so it is just a matter of a small amount of time now. It was heartbreaking to see her lying there, so lifeless and fragile, but the upside is that we will all be glad to see her out of whatever suffering she may be going through.

My three older kids spent the majority of the time sitting next to her on the bed, holding her hand, crying and telling her what a great grandma she is and how much they love her. Logan brought his Leapster along, so he was entertained enough during the visit. He understands, as well as an almost-six-year-old can, that she is going to die soon and some days it saddens him greatly, but he seemed more frightened of her tonight than anything. She certainly didn’t look like the grandma he remembers. He did hold her hand for a bit and whispered, “Grandma, it’s Logan,” in her ear.

I can barely wrap my mind around the emptiness her loss is going to leave. While it’s comforting to know that she’ll be in a better place, adjusting to life without her is going to be incredibly difficult. It’s amazing how far-reaching the circles of one person’s life stretch, how many people that life touches and how unaware we are of just exactly its impact until it’s gone.

I suspect that it’s the little things that will inspire the most tears as we adjust: Family gatherings without her family-famous crispy chicken strips, never-to-be-replicated taco meat and the constant sight of her in the background, walking around with one of her infant grandchildren while the rest of us eat; the way she made everything around her peaceful and serene; her teeny, carefully-tended summer strawberries that exploded in juicy sweetness beyond description in one’s mouth; how she pushed her grandchildren in the swings for hours in the backyard, singing songs to them; the generosity and sweetness of spirit she showed to everyone she met; the way her house always felt like a second home, with space, love and necessities in abundance.

I feel so blessed to have known her for all the years I did, to have the many memories I do and most importantly, to have had modeled so well the way a woman should be in spirit and demeanor. I said it before, but it must be said again: This world will be a much sadder, emptier place without her.

Go in peace and love, Carmen.

Last night was one such night as poor Andie came into my office an hour after she’d been sent to bed, clutching the blankie her grandma gave her. “I can’t sleep,” she said, giving me a look bordering on panic. I offered the usual solutions (counting sheep, reading, thinking about something she’d like to do) before I finally realized what the real problem was.

“Come here,” I said, embracing her tightly. As soon as she put her arms around me, she started sobbing. I pulled her onto my lap and rocked her, feeling like it was 11 years earlier and she was the baby I had so tenderly comforted back then.

“A piece of my heart is going to be empty when she’s gone,” she finally managed, through her sobs.

I think that pretty much sums it up for all of us.

It all started in January 2000, when Rachel and Andie were just a year-and-a-half old and the family found out that Carmen had ovarian cancer. The tumor in her ovary had burst, spreading cancerous cells all throughout her abdomen. Carmen’s prognosis seemed relatively bleak, though her doctor kept reminding us that people are not statistics and every individual is different. I remember her friend, a long-time cancer nurse, telling us that in her experience, we would be lucky to have Carmen for another two years.

The mother of six — my kids’ dad is the oldest — Carmen’s youngest, Kirk, was only 8 at the time. “I just want to live long enough to get Kirk out of the house,” she told me on more than one occasion. A noble goal, I agreed, but secretly I thought it was unrealistic.

But that’s Carmen for you;  unrealistic, full of hope, always looking for the positive in any situation. It has served her well over the 17 years that I’ve known her, from her proclamation that her twin grandsons, born at only 24-3/4 weeks of gestation, would “be fine” (they were), to her stubborn determination to get her youngest child through high school before she left this world (she did).

We’ve had multiple scares with her over the years as her cancer came back numerous times. Every time, she cheated death. She dwindled down to nothing but skin and bones and made us all draw our collective breath in fear that this time would be the last, but looking back now, I see that there was always a strength about her, a strength that seemed to say, This isn’t going to get me yet.

This time is different. That energy has finally faded away, like glistening raindrops in the sun. Not that she isn’t still strong, but it’s a different kind of strength, a quiet, reflective inner peace she demonstrates, knowing that she won’t be with us much longer. Her eyes, sunken from her prolonged fight, are still bright in her translucent face, and though she seems almost to be floating somewhere above us much of the time, already halfway to the next life, she’s still there to pat our backs and give us her love as we take turns shedding tears over our impending loss.

It is truly a tragedy that the world will be losing Carmen. She is one of the most amazing people I’ve ever known and despite the fact that she could have so very easily (unwittingly, of course) made me feel like I’d never measure up as a wife and mother in comparison to her, she never did. Instead, I found myself trying to emulate her strength, her peace, her faith and the way she treated everyone with sincere love, care and respect. She taught me some of the most valuable lessons of my life, simply by her example. There is no way that I would be the person I am today without her having been in my life.

A little blog post is not even close to enough room to describe the loss of her in our lives. She has been an inspiration, a blessing beyond measure, a mother and grandmother unlike any other. I cannot begin to adequately express the sadness we feel upon losing her, nor the peace of knowing that she won’t be suffering much longer, that she will soon be in a better place and that our lives have been all that much more enriched because of her presence in them.

And so we wait for her final curtain, for the goodbyes we’ve been saying in our hearts for years, for the end of an era and the beginning of a new one in which we will tell each other stories to keep her memory alive in our minds, as well as in the minds of those grandchildren who will never have the chance to know her in person.

We love you, Carmen. You have touched many lives, more than you probably know, and your legacy will live on. Heaven will be a happier place with you in it.

Cody went to preschool with Jacob and because our families are friends, knew him fairly well. He was quite upset when he found out that Jacob had passed away. I guess it hit a little too close to home for him, just as it did for me.

Up until recently he referred to Jacob’s passing on occasion, peppering me with questions, and expressing a deep fear of death, particularly the burial part. He summed up his thoughts on dying one day last fall.

“Mom, I wish I could be a candle so I won’t have to die.”

That’s the last I’ve heard from him about the subject.

Have your kids experienced the death of a close friend or family member? How did they express their grief and fear?