It Was Time

Five years? Five weeks? Five decades? Grief warped my sense of time. My son, HM3 Nikolas Pono Kaniela Venuti, died Oct. 17, 2020. He was 26. Nothing, not even time, was the same anymore.

Time was irrelevant, but dates packed their punches — his birthday, his first wedding anniversary, which he didn’t live to celebrate, and the day he died…the day he died.

I felt like I was living on the Twilight Zone set. The world was surreal. People got up in the morning, went to work, shopped for groceries, and did not notice — did not see — the zombie mom walking among them.

TAPS saw me. Other survivors saw me. But it was not time.

Niko was a corpsman in the U.S. Navy. “Doc,” as his beloved II MEF Camp Lejeune Marines called him, and he remained on active duty while battling cancer over three years. His continued service to our Navy and our country during remission and treatment was testimony to his strength and commitment. When the cancer came back a third time, it came with a vengeance before he could be medically discharged. 

Time: We thought we would have more — time to laugh at his corny jokes; to watch him start a family with his beautiful bride, Maddy; to see him become a forest ranger, or whatever God called him to do. But God simply called him.

I read TAPS emails and magazine articles. It was comforting to know I was not alone, but I was not ready to share. At the same time, I was grateful for the parents, husbands, wives, and children who did have the courage to share. 

When information on the Camp Operation BBQ Rescue retreat landed in my inbox last winter, I hesitantly applied. “What do you hope to gain through this experience?” the questionnaire asked. I wanted to think about Niko and feel more joy than pain. It had been nearly five years, and there were still mornings when I struggled to get out of bed. I filled out the application with some ambivalence. But once I hit submit, I was committed.

We, survivors, see each other. And, while we curse the circumstances that bring us together, we are grateful when we find each other. Like magnets, we click to form a force stronger than our individual brokenness. I knew this, having met Mary Laureana when we were both living in Germany. Mary is the mother of CPL Nathaniel Aaron Aguirre, who was killed in Iraq. She encouraged me to take advantage of TAPS’ many programs. But it had been less than a year since Niko’s passing when we met. I needed more time.

At Camp OBR last April, I was amazed by parents brave enough to be vulnerable less than one or two years after their child’s death. Many spoke of their positive experiences at other TAPS events and how they bonded with other survivors. At Camp OBR, we cooked, we talked, we walked…together.

Supported by the compassionate Camp OBR and TAPS staffs, my husband Don and I shared our grief and stories with other parents for the very first time. There are no adequate words to describe the giving and receiving we experienced.

Being able to look in another mother’s eyes and, with confidence, promise her that the debilitating pain she feels can subside, helped me realize how far I had come. I am forever grateful that Mary took me under her wing, that her TAPS Peer Mentor gave her the strength to walk with me.

One point we all readily acknowledged at Camp OBR is that everyone’s grief journey is different. There are survivors who are very active participants in TAPS programs, and others who need time. I needed time. But after experiencing Camp OBR, I sincerely encourage anyone who has not applied for a TAPS event to consider the next one you see. It will be time well spent.

Camp OBR was more than a retreat — it was a safe space carved out of shared grief. It was a place where tears were honored, laughter was welcomed, and silence was understood. The smell of smoked brisket mingled with stories of love and loss, and healing didn’t feel like a demand, but a gentle invitation.

To the Camp OBR staff: Thank you for your warmth, your patience, and your unwavering presence. You didn’t just feed us — you nourished us. You created an environment where we could be ourselves, broken and brave, without judgment. 

To the TAPS team: Thank you for holding space for our pain and our progress. Thank you for walking beside us. Your dedication to survivors like me is a lifeline, and your programs are a bridge between despair and hope.

To my fellow survivors: Thank you for showing up; for sharing your children’s names, their stories, and your pain; for listening to mine; for hugging me when words failed; for letting me lurk on our group chat, even though I don’t often post anything.

Camp OBR gave me something I hadn’t felt in a long time: connection. And in that connection, I found some peace. I said Niko’s name out loud, and it was heard.

So yes — five years, five weeks, five decades — time may be warped, but love is constant. And at Camp OBR, love showed up in every meal, every conversation, every shared moment. I will carry that with me, always.

Mahalo nui loa, from a grateful mom.

PHOTOS: Tai Prohaska; TAPS Archives