One of the saddest sights that I have seen, at least recently, is Parker sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing her Blackhawks jersey, watching them get crushed by Nashville.  Silent tears streamed down her face but she didn’t want to turn the game off.  She said she was crying because they were losing but it was so much more, of course.

After the game we talked about what Dave would have said – that it’s early in the series and they would get ’em in game 3.  How excited he would have been.  And that made both of us cry.




Faking It

anxiety. depression. guilt. stress. loneliness. uncertainty.

I spiral through at least a few of these emotions daily. Lest you think that I am teetering on the edge, just know that while these are all part of my life, I apparently have also been gifted with pretty decent coping skills. When all else fails, I know how to “fake it, ‘til you make it”.

I have definitely been faking it at work. On many levels. There are quite a few teachers who are new to the school, and I am quite sure they don’t know my story. I think they would be surprised to hear it. And, unless I am fooling myself, there are teachers who do know and don’t give it much thought. On the outside, I am pretty much the same old me. I started the school year with a new job title and description. I have definitely been learning as I go. In recent weeks, I have had feedback from teachers like “I appreciate your common sense approach” and “When everyone is telling us what we have to do, I am grateful that you are helping us figure out how to do it.” Considering the sources, I believe this is high praise indeed. So far the faking it part has been paying off. But that approach does have repercussions. I think that I am way more feisty and confrontational. My tolerance for petty issues is significantly lower than ever. So as much as I think I am the same old me, I’m really not. These aren’t necessarily unwelcome changes. Maybe just a little surprising.

I’ve been faking it with the kids too. I have been trying to be the spontaneous and fun parent who seeks adventures. This is pretty far out of my comfort zone, but they deserve to experience all that we can do. At the start of each trip (5 so far), my anxiety is sky-high. I have a physical response to these situations like someone has planted their foot directly in the middle of my chest. When Dave was alive, we would start each trip arguing. Mostly because I perceived that I had done 99% of the work necessary to make the trip a reality and he had packed his suitcase. But I digress. In all of the anxiety and thoughts of “I wish Dave was here”, I have realized that I am capable. I can do the things that make me anxious. And we all have a great time and are better for having done it. I just hope it gets easier.

Sam has called me twice this year in hysterics. She is not an overly emotional kid so when she goes Defcon 5, it is startling to say the least. Most recently she has been having severe pain from a hip issue related to her OI. I was on the road as soon as possible to see her at school. The reality is that if Dave was here, I would have still been the person jumping into the car that Friday night. But he would have been here for me to talk to and cry to and talk me down from my freak out. I coped. I got there in time to see her before her MRI. I stayed in the sketchiest hotel imaginable – less by choice and more due to the time of night and misguiding photos on I barely slept a wink, but I did it.

I have grown as a person in the last 9 1/2 months. I guess that is the silver lining in this storm cloud. There are definitely areas that are in need of more work. There are some things I just can’t control. It is hard to believe that I can be lonely when I am surrounded by the kids, colleagues, friends most minutes of my day. But there is a deep isolation that I feel. Alone in my parenting. Left without my partner. For every squawk and squabble, there were the looks of understanding, the tender moments and the doubled over belly laughs. This is the one that I can’t seem to cope with. I hold on to the idea that it gets easier. Or at least it gets less crappy.

Sometimes, I imagine Dave’s voice in my ear reminding me to do something.  This is all in my head because he didn’t extract any promises from me before he died (except for the no funeral rule and one other promise just between the two of us).  Sometimes I tell that imaginary voice to give me time because I am doing the best that I can.  Dave trusted completely that I knew what was important to him and that I would honor those ideas/people/things in his place.  He was right.  I’ll get there.




The Little Things

I thought I should check in since it has been a while.  To be honest, I haven’t had too much original to say.  How many times do you want to read that we still miss Dave, we still struggle with the circumstances, that life just isn’t the same?

Life goes on.  We are busy with all the normal things – work, school, activities, friends, a bit of travel.  As we hit the nine month mark, the last time we saw him is starting to feel pretty far away.  Sometimes I find myself mulling over our lives together as a whole.  Times that were memorable for good or for not so good, decisions that were made, outcomes.  I usually come to the same conclusion – it might not have been a perfectly paved road but we followed the path that we were supposed to in order to get us to this place in time.  Our kids are thriving.  Emotionally we are all doing as well as we can.  We are healthy.  We have the things we need and a lot of the stuff we want.  I have learned, I think, for the first time in my forty something years to completely rely on myself.  To trust my decision making.  To be bold.  At times, to be fearless.

With all that said, I would totally go back and change the hands of fate, if I could.  You know I would.

We have navigated through most of the big moments that happen in a year – birthdays, holidays, life moments.  I have truly realized that those are not the toughest moments.  I think the toughest moments happen when you are not expecting them and are found in the every day.

It is finding a restaurant and knowing how much he would have loved the menu of catfish and clam strips and gator tail bites.  How much he would have loved that it was a no frills place and a total dive really.

It is standing in the middle of Wegmans and thinking about how he could make grocery shopping an outing.  We would eat dinner there and he would always outspend the rest of us, sometimes by double, on overpriced prepared foods.  He loved to mull over the beer selection.  And fruit.  Boy, did that man love fruit.

It is thinking about how indescribably proud he would be that Parker is the cowardly lion this year.  Dave loved theater especially musicals.  All of the kids have participated in one way or another.  He would be out of his mind happy and excited for her.

It is not being able to find a pair of scissors.  He probably bought dozens of pairs because they always seemed to disappear.  Or it’s stumbling across a pair of scissors in the most unlikely place.

It is the upcoming March Madness.  We had our own tournament every single year.  Just the two of us.  I think I can count on two to three fingers the number of times he won.  He knew too much about the teams and had favorites.  I would just look at the bracket and make a wild stab at it.  There was so much teasing and smack talk going on during the first week.  Usually he was numerically eliminated well before the great eight or the final four.

I am not sure how much longer I will keep this blog going.  I really started it as a way to efficiently keep people up to date on Dave’s health and treatments.  I appreciate people continuing the check in.  I have a few more things to share – we are reading scholarship applications now, June will mark the one year mark, and we may scatter some of his ashes this summer.  I imagine that I will use this space as a way to express my feelings and share when those event occur.  In the meantime, thanks for keeping us in your thoughts.



Free Range Parenting

So apparently there is a parenting style called “free range parenting”.  I haven’t really read too much about it but have heard the term thrown around.  Evidently, it is a throw back to the 70s and 80s when kids growing up didn’t always have an adult scrutinizing their every movement.  I just wanted to assure you all the free range parenting is alive and well at my house.  Assorted commitments have me out of the house quite a few evenings this week.  My solution is to leave the kids car keys and cash.

The 11 year old was already responsible and organized.  The 16 year old is getting there.




Checking In

It’s been radio silence around here lately.  I really haven’t felt much like writing or communicating.  There was –

Valentine’s Day

The 8 month mark

The Westminster Dog Show

Peter Krause

Snow Days with Offices Closed

A handprint on the mirror

The indelible memory of my head resting on his shoulder

Most of these won’t mean much to you.  But they mean a lot to me.  It’s been a challenging  couple of days.

But there was also this…


Parker made us Valentines.  One of the things she wrote on Grant’s was “Thank you for teaching me the greatness of old classic rock.”  This was, of course, an important life lesson passed on to Grant from Dave which he has, in turn, passed on to her.  Oh my heart.



Reaching Out as a Sign of Healing?

My kind and supportive friend, Liz, has mentioned on several occasions that when you are ready to reach out and help someone else, it is a sign of healing.  It is an idea that I have been mulling over in the last few weeks.  I still don’t have a firm opinion on this yet.

When Grant reached out to his friend who lost her dad, I saw that as a sign that my son understands that helping a friend when they are down is the right thing to do.  I figured that he was using his unfortunate knowledge and experience to try to ease someone else’s heartbreak just a little.  At the same time, I also worried about the effect this might have on him too.

Experience has taught me not to ask for permission to do something for someone else.  After all, they might be like me and say no.  In recent weeks I have had the opportunity to do for someone else.  I have tried to unlock my memories from the summer and figure out what I most appreciated.  I hope that my friend has felt a tiny bit less alone and found a little comfort in having an understanding ear who is willing to listen and random food items delivered to her door.  Has this been healing for me?  I am not really sure.  But it is not only the right thing to do, it is what I want to do for my friend.

Dave’s mom and dad spend the colder months in Hawaii.  Last week, his mom was out for a walk by herself and slipped on some wet stairs.  Thankfully she had her cell phone with her and was able to call for help.  Her injury required major surgery and several days in the hospital.  It is hard to feel supportive and helpful (my love language is acts of service) from so far away.  I consider myself to be a fairly decent problem solver, so I ordered a few things that will hopefully make her recovery a little more pleasant and comfortable.  Has this been healing for me?  I am not really sure.  But it is important to me to feel useful in some way and show my caring.  (Dave’s mom seems to be doing okay, thank goodness!)

So, where am I with my healing?  I have no idea.  I received an email from one of the nurses who put together the colon cancer retreat through Johns Hopkins.  She was reaching out to all of the “caregivers” who have now lost their spouses.  In it she mentions that in the beginning our commonality was having a spouse with colon cancer and now we have all lost our spouses and would we like to get together sometime to share and visit together.  My immediate and current reaction to that email is “Heck, no.  No way.  Not a snowball’s chance in hell.”  The idea of sitting with a group of others and talking about what we have been through or are going through sounds horrific.  I do not have the capacity to manage that much grief.

So is reaching out to others a sign of healing?  I really don’t know.  I do know that being helpful makes me feel like this ill gained understanding could have some small iota of purpose.  But it has not brought me any greater acceptance of losing Dave or made me miss him any less.  Maybe I have unrealistic expectations for what healing looks like.




I had Dave and his friend, Rick, pose for this picture.  When I asked them to hold hands, they just did – without question or hesitation.  (I was trying to create a cialis ad like image!)

Influential Teachers

Each week, I go to different grade level math meetings as part of my job as a resource teacher.  At the beginning of each meeting, we start with “Celebrations”.  Yesterday, on one team, the celebration was to reflect on who your most influential teacher was.  I loved listening to others share who the teacher was, what grade and for better or worse how they were influenced by this individual.

I had no idea how many of our teachers were children of teachers.  Several people said that they called their mom after a challenging day or when they wanted to reflect on how a lesson or interaction went.  That sounding board, for me, was always Dave.  I would come home and unload whatever was on my mind.  And he would listen and generally offer me a solution or advice which I may or may not have followed.  Over time, he realized that his best response was just to be happy or indignant or frustrated with me.  That was really what I was looking for.  Yesterday was kind of a frustrating day.  I would have loved to have talked to him about it.  I miss that time.



For the record, my most influential teacher was Mr. Masatani (not sure how to spell it).  He was my fifth grade teacher.  He was kind of gruff and once accused me of using my brother’s project from the year before (as if!).  He had a connection with the LA Dodgers and awarded prizes like jerseys and baseballs for achievements.   I remember when your cursive handwriting met his high standard you were allowed to write in pen and he rewarded you with a special pen eraser.  The thing that I most remember about him though was that he was probably the first Japanese person that I had a lot of contact with.  It was the first time in my life that someone (at least to my face) recognized me as being asian and exposed me to what that meant.  It was the first time that I learned about the Japanese internment camps in WWII.  (For those of you who don’t know me, I was born in France.  My biological mom was Japanese and my biological father was Czech.  I was adopted when I was 2 1/2 in Germany by a caucasian US Army officer and his caucasian wife – also known as Mom and Dad!)  5th grade was the first time that I considered what it meant to be Japanese.

In college, I tutored a Japanese woman in English.  She teased me for my pitiful lack of knowledge historically and culturally and invited me over for meals so that I might learn more!