Christmas 2024

 

Frenchie,

You’ve been gone for ten months now. This is our first Christmas without you.

Last night, all I could think about was how many times I drove with you on Christmas Eve to get gift cards for the kids. You loved Christmas — it was always such a big part of our children’s lives. Now, looking back on all those years, I want to establish traditions that our children and grandchildren will remember long after I am gone to be with you. I’m not very good at traditions… well, at coming up with them — so I’ll have to ask around for help.

I woke up this morning and looked at your face on the pillow, whispering a quiet Merry Christmas. I took a shower and got ready for the day, but this year I didn’t put much effort into decorating. It didn’t seem right without you. Honestly… nothing seems right without you. I’m still trying to process the fact that you are gone — and the terribly tragic moment on that beach when I watched you leave me. The nightmares are still unbearable.

This Christmas was very quiet. None of the kids came over. I drove by Blake and Chloe’s home… and then by Kaitlyn and Brian’s. But I didn’t stay. It hurts to think that our grandchildren will not know you — the laughter you brought, the joy you added to this family, especially on Christmas Day. Thank you for all the years and Christmases we spent together; they truly were magical.

Dr. Lettieri called me today to check on me. I thought that was really sweet of him — a kindness I didn’t expect, but one that warmed my heart.

I found myself thinking about that Kathy Lee watch. I teased you so much when I opened it, knowing exactly where you bought it — Walmart, the night before Christmas — with Mike Scow by your side, hunting for anything that would make Jenny and me happy. I still have that watch, still in the box it came in. You swore up and down it wasn’t from Walmart, but we both knew the truth. We got so many laughs out of that moment, and you were always such a good sport when I teased you.

I keep thinking about Christmases past — and I cannot think of one that wasn’t full of fun and joy because Christmas meant so much to you. I remember our first Christmas after we were married. We had Kayla and Blake. They were so little, but you made sure Kayla felt extra special that day. Blake was only a few months old, so we knew he wouldn’t remember — and I’m sure Kayla doesn’t either — but you bought her a little doll, and she loved it.

I was alone most of the day, and I was okay with that… until it got dark. Because then I knew I would be walking up those stairs to bed alone. And now I’m sitting on our bed, looking at your pillow and wondering what you’re doing today, where you are, who you are with. I wish I knew exactly what happens after death… all I know for sure is that I will see you again. The covenants we made in the Temple — the promises we made to each other — will make every moment of this loneliness worth it. Eternity with you sounds perfect.

I love you so much.

Merry Christmas, Babe.
Love,
Monya

Perspectives

 

Dear Frenchie,

I don’t understand why people assume that when someone dies, the surviving spouse is automatically “taken care of,” or that I should have money to spare. My Uncle Mike is now going to lose his house because the contractor they hired skipped town with their money. I don’t know why they paid him so much up front. He called me, crying, and asked to borrow some cash. Eric, you know how much I love him and Auntie Ann, but you taught me not to do business with family. We’ve been let down by too many people — including family.

You were always the one who handled those kinds of decisions. On top of that, I received a notice from the IRS saying I owe $78,000. I don’t know what to do. Alt Key will review it, but it’s due December 1st — and interest starts accruing daily until it’s paid. Dana won’t settle, and that stresses me out.

On a happier note, I finally finished my sixth year with Dr. Amen and am now legally a certified life coach. I know that would make you smile. I even thought about calling myself The Happiness Junkie. But I’m not going to publish it. You saw how the kids reacted to the first book — and even though I’m starting a new chapter of life without you, I have to protect my heart from being hurt like that again.

I’m finishing the last chapter of Pebbles in My Pockets, but I haven’t decided whether to publish it. Producers from all kinds of agencies have called, wanting to turn I CAN-CER VIVE into a movie. One company even offered to fund the entire production and wanted me on set to ensure it was done tastefully. But if the kids didn’t like me writing a book, they would definitely be against a movie.

The Netflix contract I signed is now null and void — and honestly, that was a blessing in disguise. I still got paid for it. Part of me wants to publish Pebbles in My Pockets because it truly is the story of my life… but telling the kids might trigger something in me and probably in them, too. So for now, I’m keeping it private.

I’ve been studying perspectives, and, wow —do I have different ones now. People act for a reason, and that reason is rooted in our brains. What I’m experiencing — grieving your loss — is very different from the kids losing a father. They do not know our whole story, and I want to keep it that way. They love you from a child’s point of view; they want me to think they knew all our secrets, or even that they knew you better than I did. You and I both know that’s simply not true.

You and I knew everything about each other. We spent over 40 years figuring out life and how to connect with each other. It all comes down to perspective, and mine are mostly good memories. I’ve tried to erase the bad, but I know those struggles taught us how to survive the circumstances we created when we were younger.

I once blamed you for awful things you did to me — but now, after our last night together, your tears when you said, "You are the love of my life, and I am sorry for things I've done to hurt you." That is all I ever wanted to hear from you, acknowledgment. I instantly forgave you for it all.

I also understand that I didn’t come from the same family as you. We entered a relationship with very different perspectives on life, raising kids, your dad, Betty, my mom, and my stepdad. With all that going on, we truly should have taken more time to be present in our marriage. 

I now know that everyone is dealing with something, and even if we don’t share someone’s perspective, that doesn’t diminish their truth. I’ve learned respect and compassion — and that is where I am now.

I love you, babe, and I know you will continue to guide me.

I’m so grateful we were sealed together for eternity. I look forward to holding your hand again.

Love,
Monya

My Experience in Maui

My Experience in Maui

Eric,

I needed to discover the truth for myself. So I scheduled appointments with the Maui Police Department and the medical examiners who handled your case after your passing. I felt compelled to meet with them and ask my questions — even though it took courage, I wasn’t sure I had.

I booked a flight to Maui for December and counted down to that trip for three months. To prepare spiritually for what I would discover there, I dedicated myself to studying the scriptures and praying. I wanted strength and peace before I set foot on that island again.

I rented a condo nearby and spent almost a week there before my meetings. You know me — I needed time to pace the floors, process everything, and wrestle with my thoughts. I stayed mostly inside, venturing out only once a day for a meal and a quiet sunset over the ocean.

Oh, and I met Linda and Kevin Bennett for dinner one night. I treasure my friendship with Linda — she kept me sane through the worst parts of my childhood, and she is one of the few who truly understands me. I will always love her. I thought of Jami too — how early she left this life, and how much I wish I could still be in touch with her.

My first appointment was with the police. When I saw the officer who helped lift you from the sand and guided me onto the ambulance that day, I immediately recognized him. He gave me a hug and asked how I’ve been. Most people ask out of courtesy, but I wasn’t fine. I haven’t been fine. I’ve been unraveling.

I asked about the witnesses—and whether they knew their names. They don’t release that information and ask why I wanted it. The truth was, I didn’t need the names — I was just talking, trying to connect dots in my head. I forgot to bring my notebook with my questions. Typical me. But after thanking them, they confirmed what the death certificate said: you drowned.

The next day, I met with the two medical examiners who performed your autopsy. I remembered barely anything from that day — just fragments —, and I needed clarity.

I asked if you were already gone before the EMTs worked on you for 45 minutes. They told me most likely, yes. The moment they said that, my eyes filled with tears. They gently explained that none of your organs — including your heart — showed trauma or inflammation. As they spoke, my own heart began pounding. I thought I might throw up. I shook my head “no” through much of it, remembering that awful day and reliving it with a different perspective. I cried hard.

They told me you died of what’s called a “dry drowning.” When I asked what that was, they explained that it’s most common in toddlers who accidentally inhale air into their lungs and never show distress — yet don’t wake up the next day. They said that when an adult drowns in Hawaii with no water in the lungs, doctors first want to know if there were heart issues. That might be why the EMTs asked me if you had ever had heart problems while they were working on you.

Their conclusion was compassionate and straightforward: In their opinion, you were caught in rough surf, probably panicked or fainted, and that’s when you drowned, and your spirit departed. They assured me you felt no pain. I left with a clearer understanding, and even though the truth was heavy, their patience and kindness gave me the answers I needed.

On my final morning, I knelt and prayed — asking Heavenly Father for strength once again. I drove to Black Rock Beach and sat in the car, listening for answers… but nothing came at first.

I brought a journal and something comfortable to sit on, hoping words or impressions might come to me. As I walked the path you and I had walked hand-in-hand just ten months earlier, the pain resurfaced. I stopped where Jori and I had once sat, remembering your hug and that last kiss you gave me. I remembered the moment you said to me, “I love you. I’ll see you soon.” Hearing you say it felt strange then… but meaningful now.

As I sat beside the place where your spirit left your body, memories came flooding back.

I watched your body being pulled from the water — blue and still — and I sat next to you as the EMT's tried to revive you. When they called the time of death, I screamed, “No! Please no, don’t leave me!” — the exact words that now play back in my memory like a nightmare. The police officer gently helped me up and into the ambulance.

I wrote this in my journal:

I just want the Lord to help me escape this storm I can’t get away from. People ask how they can help, but I don’t know what to tell them. I want to be brave and move forward, but I feel alone. It’s been almost ten months since I lost my favorite person — my sweet husband — in this very spot. I pray every morning and night, trying to appear strong, yet I still question why this happened, why you? Why now?

As I sat there, the waves crashed in and out, and something incredible happened — something only Heavenly Father could have orchestrated.

Suddenly, everything went quiet. I sensed His presence so strongly I looked to my right … and there you were. Sitting beside me. Young. Peaceful. Beautiful. You looked at me and said softly, “Hello, sweetheart.”

I couldn’t touch you… But I could see you and hear you. Just the two of us on that beach. At first, I thought it was a dream — like those dreams I had of your mom when she passed, or the spiritual experiences I had during my cancer journey. But this felt different. I wasn't dreaming this was Real.

You looked at me and said, “Don’t cry. I am so happy. I’m with mom and dad.”

I began asking questions — some you couldn’t answer — but one you could: “Were you scared? Did you have pain?”

You told me there is nothing negative where you are. Nothing at all. You confirmed you did not die in pain, and that you are no longer scared or anxious. You told me it is beautiful where you are and that God is real. You said you watched me on the beach after your spirit left your body — saw my fear and pain — but could do nothing to help.

Then you said something that pierced my heart:

“Believe me — Heavenly Father is proud of you.”

You reminded me of the strength I’ve had throughout my life. You told me that before I came to earth, He knew I would face trials… but if I stayed close to the Lord, I would be blessed through them — and grow into the woman He designed me to be.

You told me to give my heart to Heavenly Father — that He sees beauty from within. And then you whispered… “You are beautiful.”
I thought of all the times you told me that, even when I struggled to believe it — especially after my facial paralysis. I cried, embarrassed by how much it meant.

You sat with me for four hours — longer than I realized. I knew that Jesus had escorted you to me — that Heavenly Father prepared me spiritually so I could receive what I needed.

You said:

• Continue to attend the Temple.

• The covenants we made are sacred.

• Those covenants will bring us together again.

• No matter what choices our children make, we did our best.

• Jesus Christ lives and loves all of God’s children.

You reminded me that love eternal never dies — and that I will see you again.
You told me to be happy and to keep serving and preparing.

You said your work continues — that you are serving others, sharing the Gospel as a missionary in the next life. I am so proud of you.

I will keep those covenants we made in the Temple. I will continue to serve others. I will prepare to see you again.

My love for you is eternal, sacred, and deeply profound.
This isn’t goodbye…
I’ll see you soon, my love.

Love,
Monya