I Wish Death Would Take a Vacation: This Side of Heaven – Book Three

Being forced to go on after Greg

There are days when “moving forward” feels like the cruelest phrase anyone could say to me. I did not choose to move forward without Greg. I did not decide that I was ready for a life that no longer included my son on this side of heaven. I was simply placed in it.

On November 14, 2025, Greg died, and somehow the world kept moving. Morning came. People went to work. Cars filled the roads. Coffee was poured. Bills still arrived. The sun rose as though nothing had happened. But something had happened. My son was gone. And I was still here. That is one of the hardest truths of grief: sometimes you are not courageously “moving on.” You’re carried into the next day because time refuses to stop.

I have learned that there is a tremendous difference between going on and leaving someone behind. I will never leave Greg behind. He comes with me. He is in the stories I tell. He is in the places that remind me of his love of history, travel, mountains, books, ancient ruins, and wide-open horizons. He is in photographs, memories, conversations, and quiet moments when something beautiful catches me off guard, and my first instinct is still to think, Greg would love this. He is in the mother I became because he was my son.

Death changed our relationship, but it did not erase it. There are mornings when getting out of bed feels like cooperating with a world I never agreed to live in. There are moments when I laugh and then feel the strange collision of gratitude and sorrow. There are ordinary days when grief suddenly reaches through everything and reminds me that he should still be here.

That is grief. It does not always announce itself. Sometimes it whispers. Sometimes it ambushes. Sometimes it sits quietly beside you while you fold laundry or drive home from work. And sometimes it knocks the breath from your lungs.

But somehow, even in this shattered place, I am still working. I am still planning. I still look at calendars and think about next month. I still make appointments, answer messages, write pages, handle responsibilities, and think about what I want to accomplish. That surprises me sometimes. Because part of me is still standing on November 14, trying to understand how Greg could be here one moment and gone the next.

Grief did not remove me from life. It simply made life harder to carry. There is a strange contradiction in continuing after the death of your child. You can be completely heartbroken and still have things you want to do. You can miss someone with every cell in your body and still make plans for tomorrow. You can cry in the morning and laugh later that afternoon. You can feel shattered and still be productive. I have learned that these things do not cancel one another out.

My continuing does not mean I am finished grieving Greg. My planning does not mean I have accepted losing him. My work does not mean I have somehow moved on. It means I am still alive. And while I am here, there is still something for me to do. I am still writing. Still loving. Still caring for the people God has placed in my life. Still managing things I would like to see happen. Still making plans even when I know better than most that plans can change in an instant.

Maybe that is one of the bravest things grief asks of us: to keep making plans after life has already taught us that nothing is guaranteed.

People often talk about strength after loss. I understand what they mean, but strength looks different to me now. Strength is not pretending I am okay. Strength is loving Greg enough to continue carrying what his life gave me. Strength is allowing myself to cry and still get dressed. Strength is answering the phone. Strength is checking on the people I love. Strength is praying when I do not have beautiful words. Strength is waking up again tomorrow.

There are moments when I almost feel guilty for looking ahead. Then I remind myself that Greg knew his mother. He knew I was a worker. A planner. A doer. A woman who kept going when life became difficult. He would recognize me here. Even shattered. Even grieving. Even carrying him everywhere I go.

I am still me. Changed forever, yes. But still here. I also know Greg would never want my story to end at the moment his did. That does not make going easy. It makes going on meaningful.

There are still people here whom I love deeply. There are still words I need to write. There are still places God may ask me to stand. There are still hands I can hold and people who may someday need to hear, “I understand. I have been there too.”

Perhaps that is part of what surviving becomes. Not forgetting. Not recovering from the person you loved. Not tying grief into a neat little bow. But learning to carry love and loss in the same heart.

My Christian faith tells me that November 14 was not the end of Greg. And because I believe that, I cannot call this goodbye forever. Scripture says: “We live by faith, not by sight.” – 2 Corinthians 5:7.

Right now, sight tells me Greg is missing. Faith tells me there is more. Sight tells me there is an empty chair, an unanswered phone, another birthday, another holiday, another ordinary Thursday without him. Faith tells me death does not receive the final word. So, I keep going. Some days gracefully. Some days badly. Some days one hour at a time.

I am not walking away from my son. I am walking toward the day when I will see him again. Until then, I will speak his name. I will tell his stories. I will remember his laughter. I will look toward the horizon he loved so much. I will love the people he loved. I will keep writing. I will keep working. I will keep planning. And when life feels impossible, I will remind myself that continuing to live does not betray Greg. It honors the enormous love that still exists between us.

I would have chosen more years. More conversations. More photographs. More trips. More ordinary days. I would have chosen Greg growing older while I watched. That choice was taken from me. But I still have another choice. I can allow death to take Greg’s physical presence without allowing it to take every beautiful thing his life planted inside me.

So here I am. A mother who never wanted to learn how to live without her son. A mother still grieving. Still loving. Still believing. Still writing. Still working. Still planning. Still looking toward heaven. Still getting up. Not because I wanted this road. But because, for now, I have been asked to keep walking it.

And Greg, my beautiful boy, comes with me every single step.

Joy M. Mills © 2026