Jenna Brooke Photography

Let me bring you all up to speed. It all started in 2016, when Granny suffered a stroke—THE stroke. For the first time, the thought of “death” and “Granny” appeared in the same breath. She lost her ability to speak for a few days, and in those early moments, she called everyone Trenia and answered “No” to every question.
“How are you feeling, Granny?” she would respond, “No.”
“Would you like your favorite chicken nuggets from McDonald’s?” Again, she’d simply say, “No.”
We lightened the mood with gentle teasing, finding small moments of humor amidst the heaviness.
After months of therapy, she miraculously regained her speech and the ability to walk. It was as if she had to relearn it all—speaking, walking, and returning to the woman we knew and loved.

Over the years, I’ve learned to adapt to the concept of death. I won’t pretend to be an expert on the subject because I’m not, but you have to learn how to cope with it and how it changes you. I’ve made poor decisions in the wake of losing loved ones. The mind has a way of letting you spiral into your thoughts, and those thoughts can become traumatic. You may find yourself facing frequent nightmares, insomnia, fatigue, edginess, and, for some, a reliance on drugs or alcohol to cope. It’s a difficult subject for many to address openly.

For me, I didn’t seek therapy until I was 27, but my understanding and appreciation of death began when I was 25. It was 2016—the year of the stroke. That year, I became deeply curious about how our bodies function and, more specifically, how our minds process trauma. I devoured psychology magazines that suggested learning a new language to stimulate the left hemisphere of the brain. Engaging in word puzzles and using coloring books were also recommended to support cognitive memory. The symbolism of colors fascinated me—like green, representing life, renewal, and energy—serving as small reminders of growth and resilience.

Granny’s heart just stopped.  

In March, Granny’s heart stopped. I was at Milan High School for my uncle’s memorial run when I got the news. I remember taking a deep breath and closing my eyes. This could be it. Will it be? Please don’t let her suffer. What state of mind is she in? A million thoughts raced through my head. It took me fifteen minutes to drive from Milan to Jackson General Hospital, and I sprinted into the Emergency Room only to be told she had just arrived.

Okay, I have a few minutes to pull myself together. Christen and I were finally allowed back to see her. Why is the walk from the emergency entrance to the rooms so long? Why is that man staring at me? Is someone yelling from that room? Is she dying too? I started sweating as my mind filled with these racing thoughts.

This is it.

And then I saw her.

“Hey, girl!”

Did she just say “Hey” to us? Jesus. Christen and I burst into laughter.

“Well, did you see the light?”
“Nope,” she said, with a casual shrug.

Minutes passed, and she finally looked at me with recognition.
“Oh, Jenna Brooke! I didn’t know that was you!”
“Gran, I’ve been talking to you for five minutes!” I replied with a smile.

 She was admitted to the hospital and stayed through the weekend. I took the evening shift since I lived just five minutes away. I picked up her favorite—chicken nuggets with sweet and sour sauce—for dinner. We sat, caught up, and laughed together. When I noticed she was getting tired, I left, as no one was allowed to stay overnight in the ICU.

Less than thirty minutes later, and just one melatonin in, I got a call that she had coded. They were able to shock her heart back into rhythm. From that moment on, it was all talk about this “lovely” pacemaker that would soon be inserted into her heart.

The surgery was a success, and here we are now—celebrating her birthday weekend.

I’m walking around in Hobby Lobby right now, and a million thoughts are racing through my mind. I have to make this the best birthday for her. Will this be my last year with her? She loves lighthouses. What about getting her another one? No, that feels too basic, especially since I got her a church lighthouse two years ago. Why didn’t I think of that sooner?

As I wander through the back of Hobby Lobby, I find myself in the art and painting section. We’ll paint together.

  Shelia asked Granny what she wanted for her birthday this year. “I want my family in church this Sunday, and I want a birthday party. I want a homemade meal after church,” she replied.

Well, we made it happen. Granny and I painted her canvas on Saturday night, and we all went to church, where they sang “Happy Birthday” to her. Afterward, we enjoyed a wonderful homemade meal prepared by my amazing Aunt Shelia.

We spent the day running around, swimming, and playing with the horses. My dad, John, and my cousin, Nick, played and sang Baptist hymns for her. It was a birthday celebration she will never forget.