Grief, Giggles, and Iguanas: A Real Look at Family, Guilt, and Goodbyes

Grief is weird.

There, I said it. It’s awkward, unpredictable, inconvenient, and sometimes it comes with lizards.

I spent the last eight days in Florida visiting my Aunt Dee Dee. It was a last-minute decision to go—one of those gut-pulls you can’t ignore because everyone was worried, and everything was starting to feel heavy and urgent. She has cancer. It’s bad. Things are moving fast, and not in a good way.

I was hoping to spend quality time with her. Instead, she spent five out of the eight days in the hospital after a pulmonary embolism and her first round of chemo. She felt awful about that. Guilty, even. Like she was letting us down. But the truth? She was where she needed to be. I visited her every single day she was there—sometimes twice. My portable charger (affiliate link) basically lived in my bag because hospital waiting rooms are where phone batteries go to die. I told her not to worry about entertaining me or my daughter Vanna. We were fine. And we were there for her, not brunch.

I kept telling her, “I’ll be back next time with my whole family. And I won’t wait 12 years again.”

That was the other layer to this trip: regret. I haven’t been great about staying connected. Not because I don’t care—but because life, excuses, distractions, all of it gets in the way. And now, with everything happening, that distance feels…loud. So this is me learning from it. Acknowledging the guilt without letting it swallow me whole. I can’t undo the time I missed, but I can choose differently going forward. Even a text. A check-in. A quick, “Hey, you’re on my mind.” It matters. ’ve started keeping this little reminder journal (affiliate link) so I don’t let months slip by without reaching out.”

Grief brings out all the weird layers of guilt and logic. I’m the “logical one” in the family, which often makes me feel like a bit of a jerk. Because yeah, miracles happen—but statistically? The prognosis isn’t good. And thinking ahead to what’s likely feels like a betrayal. But pretending she’s not sick feels like one too. It’s a no-win emotional tug-of-war.

Everyone in the family is processing it differently. Some cry. Some clean. Some avoid the topic completely. I ended up talking to a lot of people—cousins, uncles, my mom, Aunt Dee Dee herself—just trying to help them name what they’re feeling. Because if you don’t talk about it, it festers. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from therapy, it’s that unspoken grief grows sharp edges.

But this wasn’t all somber and heavy.

There were giggles. And wildlife. And iguanas.

My cousin Dave—bless him—is a hilarious, quirky, incredibly thoughtful human. He was the comic relief, the chauffeur, the deep thinker, and the guy who knows where all the best lizards hang out. We had a porch full of fidget toys, a living room full of sarcastic commentary, and hearts full of the kind of laughter that helps you breathe again.

And then there’s Lilly. I met my second cousin Lilly for the first time. She’s 7, and she’s a little beam of stardust with a heart too big for her tiny frame. I got to hear about her first day of second grade, her friends, her teacher, and how much she loves her grandma (Aunt Dee Dee). Watching her play with Vanna and Dave was one of the most unexpectedly healing parts of the trip.

Oh—and the iguana incident. Picture this: a full-grown iguana decides to go for a swim in the backyard pool. Vanna (in a dress) jumps in after it. Dave has a net. Vanna grabs a beach shovel. I have my phone filming the chaos. Jen is on FaceTime yelling instructions. We never caught the iguana, but we did catch a memory. (Also, this waterproof phone case [affiliate link] saved my phone from Vanna’s splash zone.)

There was also the night in the DFW airport. We had to sleep there after delays, and it was a hot mess. Everything was closed, we froze, we barely slept. But at one point, Vanna tried to sleep in one of those weird egg chairs and the entire process of watching her try to make it work had us doubled over with giggles. A core memory, for sure. Next time, I’m bringing this travel blanket (affiliate link) so at least my body temp survives.

We also went to the nail salon. Vanna got her nails done. I got my toes done. Because why not. We needed a small moment of normal.

And then there was my mom. She’s been in Florida for weeks, running herself into the ground trying to hold everyone together—laundry, dishes, feeding people, caring for Aunt Dee Dee and Uncle Dave, making sure the house stays functional. I sat her down and reminded her she’s not alone. That she still has a support system, even if it looks different now. I promised her I’d show up more. Not just in emergencies.

Coming home was bittersweet. I missed my wife. My youngest daughter. My dog soulmate. It was the longest we’d been apart.

So no, the trip didn’t go as planned.

But I showed up. For my aunt. My mom. My family. Myself.

And it turns out, you can grieve, giggle, and chase iguanas at the same time.

By: Jess E