Covid-19 Memorial Rami's Heart

06/03/2026

Today we remember Irene Collins with love and gratitude, marking another year since her passing on June 3, 2020, at the age of 90. Born on July 2, 1929, in Detroit, Michigan, Irene spent her childhood in Cleveland’s Tremont neighborhood before building a full and vibrant life in Lakewood and Berea, Ohio.

Irene was a devoted mother, a committed community member, and a woman who poured her energy into the places and people she loved. She was active in Berea’s political life, volunteered at the Berea Summer Theater, and embraced every opportunity to stay engaged with her community. She divided her time between Ohio and Lake Worth, Florida, finding joy in opera, cooking, and the adventures of travel. Her journeys to Mexico, Italy, Ireland, and Ukraine reflected her curiosity, courage, and zest for life.

Above all, Irene’s greatest devotion was to her family. She is survived by her three children, Renee Evans (Mark), Terry (Heli) Collins, and Gail Legenbauer (Karl) along with eleven grandchildren, four great‑grandchildren, and many nieces and nephews. She was a steady, loving presence, opening her home and her heart to extended family and offering guidance, comfort, and warmth to all who needed it.

She is reunited now with her beloved husband, John, as well as her parents, her sister Sandra Hudak, her brother Charles “Sonny” Wilder, and cherished relatives including Ann Barno, Helen Zaleski, and Uncle John Barno of Richyville, PA.

Today and always, Irene is honored and remembered in Rami’s Heart COVID‑19 Memorial, where her legacy of love, curiosity, and family devotion continues to shine. 💛

06/03/2026

I wrote Still Grieving because the world moved on and publishers told me our grief was no longer relevant.
But grief doesn’t end when headlines fade. It lives quietly in the spaces where love still echoes.

This book was born from that truth, from the ache of being told to “get over it,” and the courage to say no.
Our grief still matters. It always will.

💛 Read. Share. Remind the world that love doesn’t expire.

📖 Order your copy today. Help show that grief is not forgotten, and never will be.

06/02/2026

Grief has a way of revealing the gaps in our collective understanding of loss. Many people move through life without realizing how isolating grief can feel, especially when the world around you continues as if nothing has changed. It’s not that people are intentionally unkind. It’s that most have never been taught how to support someone carrying a life‑altering absence.

This is why grievers often notice a painful pattern: empathy tends to deepen only after someone has experienced their own loss. Suddenly, they understand the silence, the exhaustion, the need for gentleness. They recognize the weight you’ve been carrying all along.

But this isn’t a reason to become hardened. It’s a reminder of why grief education matters. When we talk openly about loss, we help build a world where compassion doesn’t require personal tragedy. Where people can show up with understanding before they’ve lived it themselves.

If you’re grieving, your experience is valid. If you’re supporting someone who is grieving, your willingness to learn is an act of love.

06/02/2026

It’s been six years since we cleared out my brother Rami’s home. I remember how impossible it felt, every item a reminder, every drawer a doorway into a moment I wasn’t ready to revisit.

There are still boxes I haven’t gone through. Not because I’m avoiding them, but because they hold pieces of him that feel too precious to disturb. Grief doesn’t fade on command. It lingers in the quiet places, in the objects that become symbols, in the stories we carry silently.

This is the side of grief we don’t always name. The slow evolution of missing someone, the way love keeps reshaping itself long after loss.

For anyone walking this path, know you're not alone. 💛

06/02/2026

Today, we remember and honor Alice Schmidt on the sixth anniversary of her passing. Time has moved forward, but the love she gave and the light she carried remain ever present in the hearts of those who knew her.

Alice’s life was a radiant testament to devotion, nearly 64 years beside her beloved partner, a bond that shaped a lifetime of shared joy, quiet strength, and unwavering commitment. She left this world just shy of their anniversary and her 86th birthday, a tender reminder of how deeply intertwined their lives were.

Her impact stretched far beyond her home. Through decades of work in teaching, social services, and activity coordination in nursing homes, Alice touched countless lives with compassion, patience, and generosity. She nurtured her family with the same dedication, ensuring her children had the education and support they needed to thrive.

And then there was her smile, brilliant, warm, unmistakably hers. It lit up every room she entered, a reflection of the grace and elegance she carried so naturally. She took pride in her appearance, moving through the world with poise, and lovingly hoped her daughter might one day embrace that same effortless style. Today, that luminous smile shines among the stars, missed deeply but remembered with profound love.

As we mark this solemn anniversary, we hold space for Alice’s family and all who continue to feel her absence. Her legacy lives on in the lives she shaped, the kindness she offered, and the love she leaves behind.

Alice is honored in the Rami’s Heart Memorial, where her name is held with reverence and care. May her memory continue to be a blessing, today and always.💛

06/02/2026

When someone tells you they had to put your book down just to make it last a little longer… that’s the highest compliment.

Still Grieving is already finding its way into the hearts of readers, one chapter at a time.

If you believe pandemic grief deserves to be seen, understood, and honored, please order your copy today. Every purchase helps show that this book was necessary. That these stories matter, and that pandemic grief is still deeply relevant.

Thank you for reading, for feeling, and for honoring these stories with me.

📖 Still Grieving: How the Pandemic Changed the Way We Mourn is now available on Amazon.

"Still Grieving: How the Pandemic Changed The Way We Mourn" is more than a personal account of loss, it's a powerful reckoning with the invisible grief so many carry. In this deeply moving memoir, Rima Samman-Whitaker begins with the sudden, preventable death of her younger brother, Rami, during ...

06/02/2026

A death doesn’t just take one life.

It reshapes the entire family system, roles, routines, and the sense of “us” that once felt whole.

The family that existed before the loss doesn’t return.

A new version forms, but it forms around a space that will always belong to the person who’s missing.

06/01/2026

is here already. Let’s take a moment to honor those we carry in our hearts. If your loved one has a special milestone coming up—whether it’s a birthday, anniversary, or their date of passing—help us share their story.

Send a brief bio and up to 10 photos to [email protected], collectively we keep their memory alive.

Because our is love that never fades, and remembrance matters. 💫

05/31/2026

I wrote Still Grieving because the pandemic changed how we mourn and too many stories were never told.

This book is my attempt to honor the families who were silenced, minimized, or forgotten.

It took over five years to publish this book not just because it was difficult to write, but because so many publishers told me the topic wasn’t “relevant.”

More than 1.1 million lives lost in the U.S. alone, and still, people think COVID grief is unrelatable.

That’s exactly why I wrote Still Grieving, because these stories deserve to be seen, heard, and honored.

Order a copy today. Help me prove that pandemic grief is not “irrelevant,” and that our stories deserve to be seen, heard, and remembered.

05/31/2026

Your grief is not a burden. It’s a testament to the love that came before the loss. Every emotion you carry, anger, sadness, confusion, is a natural response to something that should never have happened. Your loved one mattered, and so do you as you navigate this painful path.

#