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Onyx Wesley's Sanctuary

Onyx Wesley

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Charlotte West's Sanctuary

A Ladder, a Litter Box, and Nana

One Christmas when I was a teenager—eighth grade, specifically—I was grounded. I don't remember what I had done, which probably means it either wasn't very important or there were enough possibilities that I can't narrow it down. Let's be honest, it was probably the latter—pun intended. What I do remember is that Nana was coming over. My mom was decorating our Christmas tree—before Thanksgiving—which was about 12 feet tall and required a very long extension ladder to reach the top. Before Nana arrived, Mom and I had been joking about what she'd say when she walked in. We were pretty sure it would be something along the lines of: "It looks like the Fantasy of Trees in here." That was the kind of thing Nana would say. The joking didn't last long. My mom was near the top of the ladder when she looked around and realized there were still dishes in the kitchen sink. "You need to go wash those dishes before Nana gets here and says something about them." I pointed out one small problem. Granddad had specifically told me I needed to hold the ladder. That was the stipulation for the ladder loan. Mom knew this. "Yeah, he'll be so mad at me. Just don't tell him." So, being the obedient grounded teenager that I was—some may say suck-up—I abandoned my post and went to wash the dishes. A few minutes later: "OH ****!" Then came the thudding. I ran out of the kitchen and saw the ladder sliding down the wall. My mom was still on it. Riding it, actually. Her body was almost seated on one of the rungs, her hands gripping the sides, while her head repeatedly bounced against the wall on the way down like some kind of human jackhammer. Eventually, the ladder hit the couch. The sections of it shot forward into the entertainment center, and my mom came down with her head landing in the cat litter box, which had busted apart from the impact. Cat turds and specks of clay mixed with all the glitter from the ornaments. Looking back, this was obviously horrible. Teenage me, however, was grounded. So I would be lying if I said there wasn't one very brief moment when I stood there thinking something along the lines of: Well. Granddad did tell me to hold the ladder. I did eventually manage to ask, "Are you okay?" This was not a particularly productive question. I asked if she wanted me to call someone. She said no. Nana would be there soon. She only lived about ten minutes down the road and was already on her way. Mom got herself up and said she thought she might have broken her wrist. I suggested we go to the hospital. She decided she wanted to wait. Then Nana arrived. We explained what had happened. By this point, Mom was being pretty tough about the whole thing, and somehow we were even laughing as we showed Nana the destroyed litter box and reconstructed the scene for her. Nana took it all in. My mother had just ridden a ladder down a wall, crashed into the furniture, landed headfirst in a litter box, and possibly broken her wrist. Naturally, Nana had an urgent concern. The cats. Were the cats okay? And, perhaps more importantly, where were they supposed to use the bathroom now? Nana loved cats. Really, she loved animals in general. And once she realized that the litter box had been destroyed, this apparently became a problem that could not wait. Luckily, we had opened all the blinds before her arrival so the cats could see outside from every room. Otherwise, I'm sure that would have needed addressing too. Writing this now, I wonder if Mom encouraged our departure because she needed some time to decompress—as if she hadn't just had plenty of time to decompress on our newly installed, and immediately collapsed, indoor roller coaster. So Nana and I went to Walmart. For years, I had actually forgotten that part of the story. I remembered the ladder. I remembered the crash. I definitely remembered my mom's head landing in the litter box. I even remembered drawing a picture to explain the accident to Nana, which my mother later made me use as a diagram for a Facebook video about it. But recently, Mom reminded me about the Walmart trip, and suddenly I could see it again. Nana and me walking across the parking lot. Going all the way to the back of the store. Looking at litter boxes. While my mom stayed home—continuing to decorate the tree, showering, crying, who knows, possibly with a broken wrist—Nana carefully considered the available options. Enclosed ones. High-sided ones. Whatever features apparently separate an acceptable litter box from an unacceptable one. All things litter boxes. And I should probably clarify something. We had four cats. The destroyed litter box was not their only litter box. We still had two or three perfectly functional ones at home. This did not matter to Nana. Being down one litter box was apparently an unacceptable disruption to the cats' standard of living. Problem identified. Mom wasn't going to the E.R., so Nana found another way to help. Off to Walmart. Mom eventually went to the hospital a few days later. She was perched on a gurney in the hallway because they were so busy. Her wrist was, in fact, broken. But the cats had a new litter box that night. I've thought about that story differently as I've gotten older. For years, it was mostly the story about the time my mom fell off a ladder and landed in a litter box. And to be fair, that's still a pretty good story. I still laugh out loud to myself whenever I think about it. But now I also see Nana in it. She walked into chaos and immediately started taking inventory of who—or what—needed something. Mom was standing. She was talking. She was insisting she was okay. The cats, on the other hand, were down one litter box. Problem identified. She found a way to help. It was such a Nana response: practical, deeply concerned, slightly ridiculous, and completely sincere. She loved by noticing what needed to be done and then doing it. Sometimes that meant sitting at a computer late at night trying to help her lost freshman grandchild navigate a college campus. Sometimes it meant sitting through endless swim meets. And apparently, sometimes it meant looking at your daughter with a possibly broken wrist and deciding that what this family really needed right now was a trip to Walmart for a litter box. As far as I can remember, Nana never said a word about the dishes in the sink. Maybe that's what Mom was doing while we ventured down the hill. And because apparently our family hadn't generated enough medical drama for one holiday season, a few days after Thanksgiving I ended up in the hospital myself with a ruptured appendix. I stayed there for 12 days. Nana, of course, became one of my regulars on the floor. The tree had barely made it through Thanksgiving. Mom had a broken wrist. I had a ruptured appendix. The cats, however, had their full complement of litter boxes. What a month.

By Holland Wesley

August 8, 2026 · 7 mins read

Charlotte West's Sanctuary

A Map, a Water Tower, and Nana

It was September 9, 2016—about a month after I had started my freshman year at Clemson. That night, around 9:00 p.m., my roommate and I somehow managed to get completely lost on campus. Looking back, it's funny because Clemson isn't exactly a city. But when you've only lived somewhere for a few weeks, every building looks the same once the sun goes down. I believe Nana had texted me about something and I responded that we were lost and I'd get back to her in a bit. Most grandparents probably would have replied with something like, "Be careful," or "I'm sure you'll figure it out." Not Nana. She called me. I remember standing in what felt like the middle of a field, trying to explain where we were. I knew there was a water tower nearby, but that was about the only landmark I could identify. Every direction I gave her probably made things more confusing. "I see a water tower..." "...and there's grass." Not exactly enough for Google Maps. Instead of giving up, she sat at her computer and started studying a map of Clemson. She patiently asked questions, trying to piece together where we were while I gave the world's worst directions. At one point she even emailed me a PDF map of campus to help us figure it out. I honestly can't remember why we weren't just using GPS. Maybe we had poor cell service. Maybe our phones were almost dead. Maybe we simply didn't think of it. What I do remember is this: My Nana was sitting at home late on a Friday night, determined to help her grandchild and another kid she didn't know find their way. She wasn't annoyed that I had interrupted her evening. She didn't make fun of us for getting lost. She simply treated our little freshman crisis like it was the most important thing happening at that moment. That's who she was. Whenever someone she loved needed help—even for something as small as finding their way across campus—she showed up. I've forgotten a lot about my first semester at Clemson, but I still think about that phone call often.

By Holland Wesley

July 17, 2026 · 2 mins read

Charlotte West's Sanctuary

A Final Conversation

I wrote and gave this eulogy at Nana's funeral when I was 21. Some parts make 28-year-old me cringe a little... especially the "group participation" section. But I'm leaving it untouched because it's honest, and that's worth more than perfect writing. It went like this... Good evening, everyone. I wanted to start by thanking everyone who could come tonight to celebrate my Nana's life. If you look around you, it's very clear the impact she made. When I think of my Nana, a few things immediately pop into my head: family, friends, faith, loyalty, and happiness. As all of you know, my Nana loved her family more than anything. She adopted two children. I like to call them "Mom" and "the coolest uncle in the world," but you might know them as Holly and Brent. From swim lessons to dirt bike competitions, she was a mother, a provider, and a support system. Unfortunately for them, I was born and stole the spotlight. Sorry, guys! My grandmother's love for me radiated beyond measurable lengths. I am now flooded with memories of pool days, museum trips, and park adventures. I was recently thinking about the first time I drove her in my car. If you've ever been in a car with me, you know I drive fast and don't have the most grandparent-friendly music playlist. But instead of mentioning any of that, she thanked me for driving, said she really enjoyed it, and—wait for it—made sure I got out of the car to hug her. You see, that's the thing about my Nana. For friends and family alike, it didn't take much to make her happy: a hug, a call, a card, or a five-minute visit. She lived to love, was proud of us, and was thankful for everyone. The kind of love we received from her was unmatched. She probably didn't approve of everything we did or like every decision we made, but in my experience, she never lectured or judged. She was always an open ear and could absolutely talk yours off if you just needed a distraction. My Nana was the most loyal person I've ever met. I mean, who works the same job for over 30 years? She was a loyal member of her church, exercise groups, band, school sorority, and so much more. No one can compete with that. This woman stayed busier and went out more than me... and I'm 21. Today, we owe her the justice of remembering her as a strong, courageous, and independent woman. She fought breast cancer three times. She proudly displayed her Race for the Cure medal for everyone to see. She was a survivor, and I know that is how she would want to be remembered. She did not lose this battle. She was always so positive about her treatments and had a great outlook. To me, that is not defeat but the greatest victory of all. The only way we get hurt in this life is to care. Nana cared more than most and loved more than most. So if you're hurting today, that's okay. It means you cared. I want to thank everyone who cared for her. Yes, much like my Nana, I'm still talking. If you want to tune me out now, I get it—but I've realized it may be too late to care. Look around you. Everyone here comes in different sizes, colors, shapes, backgrounds, and walks of life. We are all different, but we share one thing: companionship. In this difficult time, maybe we can make her feel a little closer. Maybe we can lean on and turn to each other the way we turned to her. If you don't mind, I want us to go on a journey together. Grab the hand of the person beside you. Now close your eyes. They say there are five stages of grief and loss. 1. Denial and Isolation: Feel that. Deny that it's true. Feel the urge to be alone. But don't. Let's reach out to each other when we need to talk about her or when we miss her. 2. Anger: Get it out. Be angry at the doctors, the nurses, your family, her, yourself. Now take a deep breath, and in the wise words of The Beatles... "Let it be." 3. Bargaining: This is where the "what if" questions come. Nothing could have been done differently. As much as we'd like to change the inevitable, we can't. 4. Depression: I always called her when I felt depressed. She was my distraction. Pick up the phone. Call anyone in this room. We all share a special love for her, and I know she wouldn't want any of us to suffer alone. 5. Acceptance: This doesn't mean we have to forget. This doesn't mean we have to be happy it happened. It simply means we now have each other to help carry what comes next. (Please open your eyes.) To think that someone felt about us the way she did should give us all some measure of peace and happiness. We must never forget the piece of her she gave to each of us without ever asking for anything in return. That is how we keep her as more than a memory. So, Nana... For your wisdom, compassion, understanding, love, and patience— Thank you.

By Holland Wesley

July 16, 2026 · 5 mins read

Onyx Wesley's Sanctuary

The Time I Saved My Sister

I know how to swim. I've known how to swim basically my entire life. B and I grew up on a lake. When Dad lived at The Pier in Clemson, the lake was right outside. He took us swimming all the time. At least twice a week. Sometimes Dad would swim with us too. Those were especially fun because I could swim over to him, grab onto him, and play. Dad seemed to have some concerns about this. Something about me "drowning" him. I don't really know what he was talking about. Everyone survived. Anyway. I am an experienced swimmer. Then Dad moved us to Denver when I was about two. There was significantly less swimming in Denver. There was significantly less water in general. When Dad did find water, there were usually other dogs and people around. He likes taking us places where we can be by ourselves, and apparently that's harder to do here than it was in Clemson. But that's okay, we have fun other ways now. So for a few years, B and I didn't get to swim very much. Then, sometime around 2023 or 2024, Dad finally took us to a creek. Water. Finally. I ran straight in. I hadn't forgotten anything. I galloped. I splashed. I swam. I ran through the shallow parts and jumped into the deeper parts. It was just like Clemson. Almost. Dad had left our leashes attached because we were in Denver and apparently Denver has rules. He knew we'd probably be fine without them, but he wanted to be able to grab us quickly if another dog showed up. So our leashes floated behind us. Dad kept watching them to make sure they didn't get caught on any branches. The leashes being on ended up being a good thing. Everything was fine. I was near Dad. B was swimming. Then B wasn't fine. She had gone into a deeper part of the creek. She turned around. She started swimming back. But she wasn't coming back. She was paddling. And paddling. And staying in the same place. Current. Dad saw it too. "OH MY GOD, B!" He started looking for a way to get to her. I didn't wait. B needed help. I ran into the water. It got deeper. I kept going. Then I couldn't run anymore. So I swam. Dad started yelling behind me. "YEAH, BUBBY! GET IT!" I knew what I needed. B's leash was floating behind her. I swam toward it. I tried to grab it. Missed. "YOU'RE SO GOOD, BUBBY!" Okay. Again. I opened my mouth. Got it. I turned around. The leash came with me. Which meant B came with me. So I swam. Back through the deep part. Back toward Dad. Back until my feet could touch the bottom again. And B's could too. B was safe. Dad was very excited. Apparently, I had done something impressive. I don't really know why. B needed help. So I helped B. Nobody had to tell me to go into the water. Nobody had to tell me to swim to her. Nobody had ever taught me to grab a leash and pull another dog back to shore. Dad didn't teach me any of that. But he didn't need to. That's my sister. I knew she was scared. I knew she couldn't get back. And I knew there was something attached to her that I could grab. So I grabbed it. For the record, Dad has pointed out that there is something ironic about me saving someone from drowning when I would apparently "almost drown him" in Clemson. Again: Everyone survived. I don't see the issue. Besides, that was playing. This was B. There's a difference. Dad still talks about the day I rescued her. He tells people he didn't teach me how to do it. He tells them he didn't give me a command. He says I can sense when somebody is in distress almost immediately, and I'm there. I don't know about all of that. I just know what happened. B needed help. I went and got her. She's my sister. Of course I did. I got so many pets and kisses in return. Maybe B should almost drown more often.

By Holland Wesley

August 8, 2026 · 4 mins read

Bryar Wesley's Sanctuary

The Time My Brother Saved Me

Onyx and I grew up swimming. When we were young, Dad lived at a place called The Pier in Clemson. There was a lake right there, and we were in it constantly. And I mean constantly. Onyx and I probably went swimming at least twice a week. Every month or so, Dad would get in with us too. This usually resulted in Onyx trying to play with him by latching onto him in the water and nearly drowning him. That will become ironic later. Then, when I was a little over one and Onyx was about two, we moved to Denver. Denver does not have a lake outside our house. There is water around, but apparently Dad has a strong preference for taking us places where there aren't other dogs everywhere. In Clemson, that was easy. We did all kinds of things off leash because we could find places where nobody else was around. In Denver, Dad says this is considerably more difficult. So we didn't swim much anymore. That's okay, though. Years went by. Then, sometime around 2023 or 2024, Dad finally took us swimming again. It was a creek. Not quite our lake, but we'd take it. Onyx immediately acted like he'd never left Clemson. He galloped through the water. He splashed. He swam. He ran back in. I remembered how to swim too. Most of the creek was pretty shallow. We could walk and run through it, with a few places deep enough to actually swim. Dad had left our leashes attached to us. He knew we would probably be fine without them, but things are different here. There are more people. More dogs. Fewer places where we can be completely alone. So our leashes floated along behind us while Dad kept watching to make sure they didn't get caught on a branch. I was swimming. Everything was fine. Then I found the one spot that wasn't shallow. My feet disappeared out from under me. Okay. No problem. I know how to swim. I turned around to go back. Except I didn't go back. I paddled. Nothing. I paddled harder. Still nothing. Apparently, I had managed to swim directly into a deeper pocket where the current was moving differently. I wasn't going underwater. But I couldn't get out. I kept paddling. The shore stayed exactly where it was. I turned toward Dad. He noticed. "OH MY GOD, B!" Dad started moving. I kept paddling. Then Onyx ran past him. Straight toward me. He hit the water and kept coming. The creek got deeper. His legs disappeared. Then his body disappeared beneath the water and he started swimming. Toward me. Dad realized what he was doing. "YEAH, BUBBY! GET IT!" Onyx swam up beside me. He wasn't trying to grab me. He was trying to grab something floating on the surface behind me. My leash. He opened his mouth. Missed. Dad yelled again. "YOU'RE SO GOOD, BUBBY!" Onyx tried again. This time, he got it. My leash was in his mouth. He turned around. And started swimming back to shore. I came with him. The current wasn't holding me anymore. The water got shallower. My feet found the bottom. I was okay. My brother had pulled me out. Nobody told him to. Dad didn't say, "Onyx, go get Bryar." He didn't tell him to grab my leash. Onyx just saw me struggling and came. Which, if you know my brother, probably isn't surprising. He can be ridiculous. He once covered himself and Dad's entire bedroom in flour. His preferred method of swimming with Dad used to involve putting Dad's own survival at risk. But when something is actually wrong, Onyx knows. And that day, before Dad could even reach me, my brother did. I don't know how he knew what to do. I just know that when I couldn't get myself back to shore, Onyx came and got me. But there's still one thing I don't understand. I had just had a life-threatening experience... and somehow Onyx was getting more attention than me for once. Unbelievable.

By Holland Wesley

August 8, 2026 · 4 mins read

Charlotte West's Sanctuary

The Shirt

Every Christmas, at some point, I think about the shirt. I was still in elementary school, back when Christmas happened at Nana's house instead of ours. Years later, when we started hosting, she would walk into our house and say it looked like it belonged in Better Homes and Gardens, marvel at the "five-course meal," and eventually establish herself as the official provider of the deviled eggs. But this was before all of that. We were at Nana's house opening presents when I picked up a box, tore through the wrapping paper, and found the ugliest shade of green I had ever seen. Green is my favorite color now. I would still shudder at this green. The best way I can describe it is if pine and puke had a baby. It was a long-sleeved shirt, which was already a problem. I didn't willingly become a long-sleeve person until I was probably 20. But the sleeves were the least offensive part. There were two enormous brown pom-poms hanging from the front. Their strings crossed over each other through this little open V at the neckline in a way that I assume someone, somewhere, had intentionally designed. I gave Nana the obligatory: "Aww, thanks!" Then came the words every child pretending to like an article of clothing fears. "Go try it on!" So I did. It was worse. Not only did the color somehow make me look almost yellow, but the shirt was at least a size or two too small. I mean tight. It also itched. I have always had sensory issues with clothing, and this thing felt like someone had vacuum-sealed me inside an Oriental rug. I called Mom into the bathroom to "see it." I think I was crying. She took one look at me and explained that I needed to go back out, show Nana, and thank her. I did not want to do this. But I also didn't want to hurt Nana's feelings. So out I went, vacuum-sealed Oriental rug and all. I don't remember exactly what I said, but I'm sure it was something convincing like: "Yeah... I don't think it fits." Nana immediately offered to exchange it for a bigger size. This presented a problem I had not anticipated. Because the size was not the problem. Or, at least, it was nowhere near the biggest problem. In fact, in all ways, it was the smallest problem. But I didn't have the heart to tell her that. So I agreed. Mom assured me later that I would never actually have to wear it. As far as I remember, the shirt sat in my closet for years. I don't know when it finally disappeared. Maybe it was donated. Maybe Mom quietly disposed of it. Maybe it's still out there somewhere, waiting to ruin another child's Christmas. What I do know is that the experience permanently changed gift-giving policy in our family. I told everyone: Do not buy me clothes. To this day, my other grandparents know that clothes are only an acceptable gift if I provide a specific link to the exact item. There was probably another layer to all of this that I couldn't have explained at the time. I believe I was still in my tomboy phase then, mostly wearing boys' clothes whenever I had a say in the matter. I wouldn't come out as trans until I was 21, when Nana was fighting her own battle. I never got to tell her that part of me. Years later, in high school, she asked me why I liked wearing boys' clothes and looking like a boy. I didn't have an answer for her. I didn't really have the words for myself yet. I wish I could answer her now. There are bigger things I wish I'd gotten to tell Nana. Things I wish she could know about the person I became. But every Christmas, somewhere between the decorations and the presents and the deviled eggs, I inevitably think about her. And that godforsaken shirt. I can still see those two giant brown pom-poms. I can still feel that thing itching. And Nana, if there's any chance you can read this from the other realm: I loved you very, very much. But that shirt was absolutely f***ing hideous.

By Holland Wesley

August 8, 2026 · 4 mins read

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