Wait and Hope
A Story of Hope — Written by Jeanie Perkins
Katie lived with courage and empathy—someone who noticed others, stood up for what was right, and quietly made the world gentler wherever she went. After Katie’s sudden death during the height of COVID, her mother’s grief was deep and disorienting, yet anchored by the words Katie loved most: “wait and hope.” Through the Grief and Loss Center, Jeanie found steady presence, compassion, and a place to heal—learning to carry Katie’s legacy forward by living with hope, connection, and peace.
How do I paint a picture of my Katie? From the time she could walk and talk, she was brilliant, insightful, funny, and remarkably kind. When she was two, I was working a lot and flying frequently out of Love Field in Dallas. Driving my mom to the DFW airport once, Katie, from her car seat, kept insisting, “Airport ‘dat way, Mommy.” After I shushed her a few times, I realized I’d driven to the wrong airport. “I told you, Mommy. Airport dat way.”
When her little sister was born, she became a five-year-old mini-mom. Not that we expected it, but she wouldn’t have it any other way. The devotion between my two girls was epic, but that’s another story.
In middle school, Kate came to me with tears in her eyes after finishing “The Count of Monte Cristo” and read me the last two lines of the book. Eleven years old, she somehow understood these words and wanted to share them with me. “All of human wisdom can be summed up in two words…wait and hope.”
A year later, she saw her good friend being bullied on the playground. He was gay. Three boys were pushing him back and forth, calling him names. “Who are you taking to the prom?” they taunted. Katie walked over, took her friend by the arm, and said, “….as a matter of fact, he is taking me to the prom.” He did take her. Ten other girls, hearing what she’d done, also asked him to the prom. His eleven dates filled our living room that night.
When she started high school, we moved to a small coastal town in Alabama near my sweet, aging mom in Louisiana. What a change from the magnet school in Texas, where she was known and loved by everybody. She loved doing theatre. Here in this new town was a little theatre putting on the “Wizard of Oz.” She wanted to make friends. She wanted to be the witch! She was chosen to be Dorothy instead and had to work hard to befriend every little girl who’d tried out for the part.
Gradually, my mom became paralyzed, and we were forced to put her in assisted care about a mile from our home. Kate would ride her bike to visit her if her dad and I were both working. She made the honor roll every time. She was an ideal person and wrote essays on inventions and letters suggesting ideas that might benefit people, animals, and the earth. She encouraged. She lifted people up. She listened. She wrote thank-you notes. It’s who she was.
Kate received a partial film scholarship to NYU. At 17, I let her go. Her dad and I worked constantly to help pay down her college loans, hoping to ease her burden. We didn’t have the money it took to make many trips to New York or to fly her home often enough. We only had a handful of in-person visits over the next decade. We always thought we’d have more time. She eventually married and had a little boy.
Seventeen years after she had left the nest, she was living alone east of San Francisco, going through a painful divorce, stressed to her limits. That night, she was unable to catch her breath and dialed 911. It was the height of the Covid epidemic. Our beautiful Katie died a short time later.
We don’t grieve for ourselves. We grieve for the loss of her hopes and dreams. Katie would want us to live in hope, continue our lives, and honor hers. I believe she visits me in dreams. She sends me signs. I literally hear her voice sometimes telling me to “wait and hope.”
I wish I could tell you how I found Laurie Taylor and the Grief and Loss Center. Truth is, I don’t remember huge chunks of time after we lost Katie. Whole conversations people say they had with me… lost. You read stories about people being saved by angels, human and otherwise. Maybe it’s that simple, Laurie is mine. I don’t know how I got here, but here I am.
When I don’t know where to turn, the Grief and Loss Center is there for me. I’ve felt renewed and validated so many times by our monthly Zoom meetings. Even if I’m unable to talk, I always find myself able to help or be helped. It’s actually been a giant step on my journey. Laurie’s ability to get people to manage their grief and move towards peace is her superpower. I’ve never known a more compassionate, sincere counselor.