My mother-in-law passed away last weekend. It wasn’t unexpected—she’d been sick for a while and was the reason for our whirlwind trip out to Chicago a few weeks ago—but still, it was hard. How can she not be there any more? Carole was always there, like a rock.

Actually, not like a rock. Carole was there like a tidal wave is there—anyone who knew her knew that she had energy to spare, she was always doing something, always helping with something, always talking to people. She made close lifetime friends from seat mates on plane rides. She had friends from elementary school she still visited with every week. Whenever Darin said we needed to do a big project, he suggested waiting until his mom came out to visit, because she’d either take over the project or spur us on to do it. Which she did, many, many times. There was nothing she liked better than making something happen, with the more people the better.

After Sophia was born and Carole retired, she started coming out to visit us every two or three months. She was a wonderful grandma—she loved playing with baby Sophia, taking her places, getting her things.

People tell lots of mother-in-law jokes; I can’t relate. I really liked Carole.

She got sick a couple of years ago, right after Simon was born. She’d always suffered from bipolar disease, but the depression she suffered struck her harder and lasted longer than any she’d had before. Bipolar depression is not just having a Really Bad Day. It’s a complete and radical change of the person. The doctors kept working on the chemical cocktails, trying to improve the chemistry, but for whatever reason, her condition didn’t really improve.

Then a few years ago she developed cancer. First, it was breast cancer, and she had a mastectomy and chemo. (Strangely, right after her surgery she was back to her old self for a few days, even organizing a dinner party at her house for a group of friends.) She had a clean bill of health for a while until earlier this year, when her doctor discovered she had brain cancer, necessitating brain surgery and chemo; then they found spinal cancer, more surgery, more chemo. And then more cancer showed up. The choice became yet more radiation or chemo on an already weakened woman, or hospice care at home for two to six months. So Carole came home.

Darin and his brothers were already out there helping Steve out with Carole’s homecoming. The doctors estimated she probably had less time rather than more, so I flew out with the kids over the weekend so they could tell Grandma they loved her. Simon was afraid to go into the bedroom to see her, but Sophia marched right in there to say, “Hi!” There’s a lot of Carole in Sophia, and I hope she stays that way, because no one was ever alone around her. I couldn’t tell if Carole was even aware that the kids were there, but Steve told me later she definitely was.

During last weekend’s visit there was a memorial service at the temple in which a lot of Carole’s friends came to celebrate her life. Despite the difficulties of the last few years, everyone remembered the woman who’d always been there for them, who’d picked them up and gotten them going, who’d organized and arranged and gathered everyone together for every celebration, big and small. I’ve never seen a tighter group of friends and relatives than the group Carole tied together in Chicago. In the afternoon and evening Steve had a reception at his house for people to sit shiva with him. The entire house was full. It was really beautiful. Carole had a lot of people who loved her a whole lot.

As we were leaving Steve’s house that night, the kids were jumping around, telling Grandpa good night and they’d see him in the morning. And I almost said, “Hey, keep it down, Grandma’s sleeping.” It dawned on me at the last second that no, in fact she’s not. I might be having a relayed reaction to really understanding that she’s gone. It just doesn’t seem possible. It isn’t fair.

Bye Carole. We already miss you so much.