Moving. What a broad subject. Not moving on, or moving up, or moving others with your words. Just moving. Packing up everything you own, everything your family owns, your pets, your possessions, packing it all into a truck, and moving. Shutting down and leaving the home that you have known for so long and going to a new start. We all do it a few times in our lives, some more than others, others only once or twice. Sometimes we move for work, or for a larger place, or for downsizing. But where I am now, my mental and emotional place in life, moving has different meanings. Moving becomes emotional.

Andrew’s shelves. His snowboarding glasses, his many hats and sunglasses, pictures of Daisy, the manual to his car, Jovi’s birthday gift, and so much more of him.

Every day, every single day, I visit Andrew’s room. It might be for just a moment to touch something, smile, and leave. Or it might be for a few minutes to look at his belongings, do some remembering, and then get back to my day. But every single day I go into his room – I am with him for that moment. Sometimes when i am lost, I sit on his bed and ask him for advice. I think about what he would say to me, think about what his thoughts might be. I might just think about him, about his smile, about what his life could have been. It gives me great peace and comfort to have that place I can visit. His room. His stuff. His memories. It is such a large part of my moving ahead with my life.

Sometimes it is sad for me to go there, sadness beyond belief and something that no one can ever put into words. But those days are getting fewer and further apart as I learn to deal with this loss. But they are still there once in a while. The days that I go in there and smile and recall the good times, recall the blessing that I had with my son for twenty one years are getting more often. I look at his guitar and think about the joy and pride he had learning to play it. It still sits on his bed where he left it. I look at his high school yearbooks and read what his friends wrote to him, and I smile. I look at his team jackets and how honored he was to wear them and be part of the teams that he was on.

Then there are the things that only those who knew Andrew would appreciate. There is an arm rest from the high school auditorium. Why would someone want that? Who knows, but Andrew had it – and was proud that he had it. There are his pads of late passes and hall passes from high school. I don’t know, but I am sure his friends know why he had them. And his sneakers – for someone who never wore shoes, he had a lot of them.

His Ranger and Titans Jerseys, his hoodies and jeans. This is what we remember him in.

When I go in there, I connect with him. Much of his clothes are still where he left them – although cleaned, folded and put away. Some of his books, some of what he collected, some of him, is still there. And I need that, I need to know that and see that to get me through each day and to keep moving my feet forward. I can not see that day in the future where I can box it up, store it away, pack up what is left of Andrew and move away. Maybe one day it will happen, but maybe it won’t.

But for others it is different. And I understand that. For others, the site of their children’s room, seeing their empty space, seeing the toys that lay collecting dust, the clothes that will never be worn again, the books that will never be read, is just too much. The searing pain of their loss is brought back to them every time they pass that doorway. Sometimes the door is kept shut, so they do not have to see inside the bedroom. Other families keep the door open, and bear the sight of the room. Their loss is tied to that place, tied to that house, that used to be a home. For those parents, a new beginning, a new place, a fresh start, is what they need. They need new surroundings not tied to the past. Simply put –  a move.

They have to put their sons or daughters belongings away. They have to box up the memories, box up the clothes, the toys, the books, and prepare to move. They might sell the furniture, or donate it, or pass it along. But it does not go with them. It is too hard to keep it. They are downsizing, they are relocating, they are moving to a new place where the memories of raising their wonderful child do not exist.

One day they will open those boxes again and sort through what was their loved one. They might cry over a toy, a book, or a piece of clothes. But it is not an entire room of overwhelming memories. It is not the entire home where the spent so many loving years before that fateful terrible day. These tears might be of the happy times, the happy memories. These tears are the good ones that moved along with them.

Don’t be mistaken – when they moved they took their children with them. The memories, their love, all that was their child, all that they had, moved along with them, but they are moving. We never forget our children. No matter where we go, or where we stay, what we give away or what we choose to keep, our sons and daughters are always with us. But some of us have to move away and start over, while others chose to stay.

Why the difference? Why the irresistible driving force to stay put or move away? Just like all grief, just like we each handle our grief our own way – no one knows why, it just is.

This journal is written in honor of Emily, and in memory of Daniel, as a thank you for all of the parents that she has helped move ahead in their lives and all of the souls she has healed.

Nothing more beautiful than snow on the mountains in Colorado.

Several years ago a good friend of mine, Robert, had a terrible brain tumor. He knew what was happening in the beginning, and knew what he had and what was wrong with him. As time wore on though, he lost much of his short-term memory, and eventually middle term memory. As long as he knew you from years past, he recognized you. When Roy and I went to visit him in the hospital, he knew us. But when Andrew joined us, Robert did not know or recognize him, although he was there visiting him just a few weeks before. Robert slowly declined as the tumor grew, and he really did not question why he was in the hospital, or what was wrong with him. He could hold a conversation with you, and talk about life, and he always seemed happy. He didn’t know how sick he was, and never questioned the tests or the radiation treatments. He eventually went home, and passed away in the shower a few months later – never knowing what was going on with his health.  Never knowing that he was so close to death for so long.

Was he lucky? I don’t know. He was dying for well over a year, and he was never sad. He never cried about it, he never thought about what he was going to miss out on in life. He didn’t cry over not getting married, or having kids, or traveling the world. He was just happy all the time, all the way to the end. He had no idea he was ill, and had no idea his days were severely limited. He was just living his life.

Is this better than knowing?

Another lifelong friend of mine, Karen, also had a brain tumor that slowly took her life over the course of several years. But she knew it from the very beginning. She looked into the eyes of her two young girls and knew she would never see them grow into lovely young women. She knew she would never see them graduate high school, go off to college, and one day get married. When I visited her we talked about life and the past. She was bed ridden for months as her body slowly deteriorated over time, and she cried. She talked to her mom and to her sister and friends to make sure that her daughters were taken care of. She was so concerned for their well being, and she wanted to make sure they had a great life – even without her in it. She wanted to make sure they went apple picking and visited Disney World. She wanted them to know all about her. Dee and I saw here a couple of days before she passed, and we talked all night with her. She knew the end was so near, she faded in and out of consciousness, but wanted to tie up so many loose ends with so many people. Her body was getting more frail by the day, but she brought out that smile and laugh every time her daughters were there.

I can only imagine what she went through those last months. What would anyone go through knowing that they are going to die soon? We all know we are going to die, and it is a part of life. But we don’t know when, and we all hope it is far, far away. We don’t prepare for it mentally, we don’t prepare for it spiritually, and we don’t talk about it. It just happens one day, for most of us.

But those of us who know they are going to leave us soon, either from cancer, or a tumor, or whatever terrible cause, what do they do? It is terrible that they are going to die, but is it a blessing that they have time? They can talk to those they love and tell them everything they want to. They can tell them stories of the past, they can tell them things they never did before. In some cases they can make peace with relatives long forgotten, and bring back family into their lives. They have time to make things right, they have time. Maybe a few days or weeks, or months, but they have time to repair the past, they have time to make amends.

Or is it a curse? Knowing your days are so numbered. Knowing you will not live your life out, you won’t grow old. Living with the stress that every day you wake up you are that much closer to the end. Going for the tests and hearing the dreaded results day after day, week after week. Watching your body as the disease slowly kills you.

Some parents who have enough time have made video-tapes for their kids to listen to. Some have written long journals to leave behind. They know they are leaving and they want to be remembered, so they do whatever they can to leave something meaningful behind. They want to leave some sort of legacy, some proof they were here on this earth and made a difference.

But as I said before – how can they mentally handle knowing that they are dying? It must be such a burden, such an unnatural thought, something that our brains were never designed for. People can really only relate to something they know, and this is something that not many of us can really comprehend – knowing our days are so limited and so finite.

Andrew was in the first group – he never knew. He never knew he was going to die so young. He never knew he would not make it to graduate college, or get married and have a family. He didn’t know how finite his days were. He made himself sushi for dinner, he watched TV, called to say goodnight to Dorothy and me, and then he just went to sleep. That was it. He passed very quietly and peacefully in the middle of the night, not knowing what he has missed out in life. Not knowing anything.

He never let me know what to do with his car, or what to do with his snowboard – who should get it. He left his valuables just lying around in his room. His phone was charging, his computer was left on, his laptop was downloading music and videos. He had no reason to think he would not be with us in the morning. It was to be his first day of class, he bought all his books, he got his notebook ready, he even wrote in his calendar “First Day of Classes.” He didn’t know.

As I look back on this, and as I learn more about grief and suffering and pain, I am almost thankful for the way he passed – not that he passed, but the manner in which he was taken from us. Andrew was a fragile soul. He was a kind, gentle human being. He thought things out to such detail, and always questioned everything, in a positive way. He had compassion for anyone and everyone he met. He had no hate, no fear, no animosity in his life. He was happy every day – but he did not handle stress well. He loved everyone he knew, and always helped others. He had no enemies. His coaches always told us that no one ever disliked Andrew, His teachers welcomed him into their closed classrooms for lunch, just to sit and eat and listen to him talk about life. He loved to listen to others as well.

I know he never had the chance to say goodbye. He never got the chance to tell us things I am sure he was holding inside. But I am okay with that.

There is just something so peaceful about this picture of Andrew.

He never had to look into our eyes and say goodbye to his mother, his sister and me. He never had to tell us those things that bothered him. He never had to hold his beloved pets and say goodbye to them, knowing he would never see them again. That would have hurt me so much more. The pain that would have caused him would have been so much, I would not have been able to bear it. And I do not think he would have been able to handle that either.

So the question is – is it better to know and have the ability to make peace, but live with the knowledge the end is near? Or is it better to just lie down and pass – oblivious to the fact that your life as we know it is about to end?

So tell me – are you thankful for the way your close ones passed? Are you at peace with the way they were taken? Or would you have liked it some other way? Of course we would all have liked it not to happen, that is a given. But it did happen to us, and we are left here to think about it for the rest of our lives.

I just left a small software conference and heard something very refreshing. The CEO/President and the Chairman opened the conference up with a pretty typical state of the company speech. What was refreshing about it was that during their opening remarks they said that over the past year they had made some mistakes, the made some misjudgments, they had stated anticipated changes and made decisions that had not come to fruition. All of the consultants there knew that already, but it was refreshing for them to say that, and to own it, it gave us a respectful perspective. We quickly moved on, now that it was dealt with, and the entire conference was very positive and successful.

I laid down that night and thought about Andrew, like I do every night. I made him promises and told him what I was going to do during his life. Told him how I was going to raise him and protect him. Promised him the sun and the moon. Of course he was only a few days old, and probably didn’t understand much of what I said, but I still made him promises. And to make is worse, I reiterated these promises throughout his life. To stand by him and to support him throughout his life, no matter what he did, no matter how he turned out. Now I am here, alone, staring at the darkened ceiling knowing that we never fulfilled these promises. Some of them he was too young for us to fulfil. Others we just never did. While many others we did fulfil in the short time we had him.

The other part was a little harder to face. Mistakes.

Andrew – I made mistakes during your life. Some of them caused you pain, some of them made you cry, other just made me cry. Some of them were obvious, while others were only visible in hindsight. But I definitely made mistakes. All parents make mistakes, we are not perfect, and raising a child is an on-the-job learning experience. We learn as we do, and as you grow. Maybe we learned a little too slow, or a little too late.

Most parents have a lifetime though to correct their mistakes. Or at least to make right by them. They talk to their children, they discuss what happened and they move on. Their mistakes become learning experience and help them as their kids grow up. Your mom and I don’t have that chance – and it sucks.

Most of the mistakes are small. Insignificant in the course of a lifetime. I always drove fast – and you learned by watching me from the back seat, which probably explains why you got let’s say more than one speeding ticket. I am sorry I didn’t slow down and set a better example for you. I know I upset you when I argued with someone over insignificant things, like a bad hotel room or a price discrepancy – and I tried not to when I was around you – but I did it way too often. I know it’s too late to teach you better, but you will be glad to know that I really don’t do that much anymore. You have taught me to be much more compassionate, patient, and understanding. Unfortunately too late for you to appreciate it.  But I know you know you have changed me for the better.

In the grand scheme of your short life, I know these broken promises and mistakes are minor. I know you had a great life, I know you know you were loved and cared for and your mom and I did our best to raise you – and we are doing our best to raise Nicole. I know these mistakes were insurmountably outweighed and outnumbered but your positive experiences, and I am at peace with this. I can close my eyes and recall the good memories. But I wanted you to know that I am truly sorry for these mistakes. Hopefully one day, somehow, you can let me know you forgive me.

All parents make promises that get broken. All parent make mistakes. But it is those of us who can put them into perspective and make them relative, who can properly love our children and grieve for them unconditionally. We cannot dwell on the promises we broke, the mistakes we make, the unspoken apologies – for they are in the past. We must remember our children, remember the good, remember the love, and hold on to that as we move one foot in front of the next.

A lot of what I write about is what I hear and what we discuss in our bereavement groups.  I take in so much in these groups, I churn it, I digest it, think about it, and when I can, I let it out and write about it. Sometimes I use the person’s name who talked about it, other times so many people mention it that I just write.

In tonight’s meeting, Pam talked about a drive to go shopping on Route 84. She passed a pretty bad accident – ambulances, airlift helicopter, police cars, and mangled vehicles. But what caught her eye and her mind was the covered dead body on the side of the road. Obviously, someone did not survive the accident. She could not see if the person was a teenager, or a senior, or someone’s son or daughter, or mother or father. She didn’t know if the person was a reckless speeder who caused the accident, an innocent victim that was just driving along and had his/her life ended, or merely a passenger in the wrong car at the wrong time. She knew nothing – but there lie a dead body.

What we all thought, and Pam verbalized it so well, was that in a few minutes someone’s life was about to change. Someone, maybe parents, maybe a wife or a husband, maybe a son or a daughter, was about to get a devastating phone call that would forever change their life. This person laying under the blanket on the cold blacktop could have been someone’s only daughter, or someone’s father, or a husband. And the person or people left behind were going to get a call in a few minutes that will be the worst call they will ever get.

“Hello, this is Sgt Smith from the CT State Police, can I please talk to….”    And that’s it.

Right now, that person can be playing tennis, or working in his office, or at school, or on vacation somewhere having an amazing trip. They are living day-by-day, very happy with their life. But that will all end very soon. With just one call their life’s path will forever be altered.

Most people who see this scene look at the body and feel sorry for that person who is dead. They probably died too young. He or she was such a wonderful person with so much to live for; they were taken from this world way too early. There are so many thoughts for that person. But they are gone. They feel no pain now.  They have no grief. They are somewhere else, wherever that may be. But they are no more – they will not cry for those they left behind, they will not grieve for leaving this earth. Wherever they were going, they will not get there, whatever they were doing, will never be completed. All of a sudden they are gone.

But those they left behind. As grieving parents, most of us have received that call. We may have been at work, or at home, in the middle of the night, or on our cell phones. We have received that call. The call from some unfortunate person forced to give us the news that our child is gone. Gone forever from our lives. Each and every one of us can tell you exactly what we were doing before that call. What we had planned for that day, plans that never got completed. We were happy, we were watching TV; we were enjoying ourselves and feeling lucky to have such great lives. We were just going merrily along looking forward to so much. Then we got that call.

As grieving parents, yes we are sorry and feel for the person lying on the side of the road, bloody, covered, forever gone. But we feel for his or her parents, we connect with them. We feel for his or her wife or husband. We feel for the children left behind. We feel for that phone call. We relate to them so much more, we empathize with them – we are them. We are the ones who received that call which changed our lives. This call that devastated the happiness within our hearts. The call that forever changed the life path we were on.

All of a sudden.

Causes, Passions, and Foundations.

We all have charities, causes, benefits that we like to support. It makes us feel good. Whether it be a center for the arts, a public school foundation, a food bank, or drug prevention – most people support some cause to some degree. I think this is great. Some people put in a few hours a year to work at a fundraiser one day, while others work several hours weekly for their causes. Some people can raise hundreds of thousands of dollars just by making phone calls to their friends and business acquaintances, while others raise money ten dollars at a time for their charity. No matter what you do, no matter how much you raise, it is important to be involved with something that is meaningful to you – for it is your emotional attachment to that cause this is your motivation.  It is not your friends or colleges asking you, not your moral obligation to do something – it is how that charity and cause has affected you that drives you do be involved on some level. It is almost a visceral reaction that causes your attachment to this cause.

Like many others, I have been involved with a few charities over the years. Attended meetings, helped at golf outings, raised some money, spread the word about a specific cause, etc. But was I passionate about? Not really. I guess that is why I was involved with them for a few years, and then moved on. Like most of us do. Our kids outgrow soccer, so we stop being on the board. Our kids graduate high school so we move off the educational foundation. We get a new job so we change our charities to be in line with our new company. But we move on because there was no emotional attachment to the cause.

Unfortunately, it is the traumatic and horrible experiences of our lives that forces us to change and re-evaluate this.

A friend of mine was the victim of a road side bomb in Iraq and suffered a traumatic brain injury. He has thankfully fully recovered and now runs a foundation for injured warriors –  a foundation that has raised and has invested over $20 million (yes million) to benefit our warriors returning home. This is an amazing feat. I am sure he was involved with many other charities before the accident – but now he and his family are passionate about this cause. They were personally touched by it.

Another friend of ours, Stephanie, lost her son to a drug overdose. The family spent tens of thousands of dollars sending him to rehab facilities, sending him to the best doctors and trying everything to help their little boy. Unfortunately none of these facilities were prepared to deal with a teen with co-occurring disorders. This is where the a person has a psychological disorder (ADD, ADHD, Addictive personality, etc), as well as a drug dependency.  Hence co-occurring issues. There is no real government position on this, the doctors are ill-equipt to properly help these children, and the medical/rehab facilities are at a total loss. Stephanie now spends countless hours every day and every week educating others, giving talks, raising money, and she even finds time to talk to other parents who children are going through this to give them advice and support. She is an amazing person who has found a cause that will help so many others families deal with this disease. She knows, and we all know, that what she is doing may prevent other families from facing the tragedy that she and her family has to deal with for the rest of their lives.

Tragically, Debbie’s son was struck and killed by a NYC transit bus while he was  standing on the curb waiting to cross the street. He was just standing and waiting when his life was cut short by a bus driver – one who should not have even been on the road. Since that horrific day, Debbie has been relentlessly working for NYC Safer Streets and was a major force in reducing the New York City speed limit to safer 25 MPH.  Her volunteer work with Safer Streets will save many mothers, fathers and families from receiving that terrible phone call that she and her husband received a few years ago. I am sure her work is not done yet. Although the speed limit has been reduced, there is so much more to do, and so much more that I am sure Debbie will do, to prevent the senseless deaths caused by motorists each and every day.

For Dorothy, Nicole and I, we are not trying to save someone’s life, or help our returning warriors, or make people drive safer. There are so many other people who have undertaken these worthy causes.  We have a different passion, that’s all. A passion that Andrew started many years ago. We are trying to help underprivileged children. We are trying to positively change their lives and help them be part of the team – whatever team that is for them.  We are trying to make sure that kids who want to play sports are given that opportunity. For those kids who want to play a sport but can not afford the equipment or the special clothes or the cost of a mouth guard, we want to make sure they can still participate. We don’t want to see children not play soccer because they cannot afford sneakers, or not play hockey because their stick is broken, or lack a baseball glove or lacrosse stick.

So many grieving parents that I see have taken up a cause. Many other people who have been profoundly effected by some tragedy have taken up a cause. And these causes are all worthy.

But why does it take this grief to make someone want to help others so much? Of course there are people who work just as hard at their cause who have not lost someone, or who have not been profoundly effected. They do it because they love it and they want to do it.

Nicole’s first high schools motto is “Not for Self, but for Service.”  Nothing about learning, or making money, or getting ahead in life – but service to others. I think that is great.

The  point of this entry? Get involved. Find something that you want to do. Don’t sit back and let the opportunity to help others pass you by. Talk to your friends and ask them what they do. Find something that makes you tear up or you can make a connection to. Help at a food bank (on a day other than Thanksgiving), walk dogs at a local shelter, help socialize stray cats at a cat rescue, collect coats for the homeless, help set up computers or build homes for returning vets. But do something. Get out of your chair and step up to life. Don’t rely on others to do it.

If someone was not passionate about breast cancer and started to raise money for research, do you thing the survival rate from breast cancer would be in the nineties?  If someone was not so passionate about not throwing away food every night, would City Harvest save some 136,000 pounds of food each and every day? And there are dozens of other examples of people getting involved to help others.

Don’t sit on the sidelines and let the opportunity to get that feeling of helping others pass you by. Sit up, take responsibility, get involved – it will change your life.

I am sitting here on my flight from NY to Phoenix in row 7, just a few rows behind that infamous opaque curtain that covers the elite first class. I gaze up there where they get to eat Caesar salad, herb steak, and cheesecake for lunch, while I munch on the chicken I took from home and a bag of grapes I am traveling with. I don’t mind it. I have been upgraded to first class a few times, and while it was enjoyable, I don’t miss it.

What does come to mind is a regret. I see the people up there smiling, sitting comfortably in their wide seats, and getting pampered by stewardesses that are actually nice. It bothers me that Andrew will never have that experience. It bothers me that my son will never have the chance to be one of those who are pampered in first class. I know he would have enjoyed it.

What else has he been cheated out of? What else do I think about that he never got to do or see? Where didn’t he get to go? What did he forever miss?

He never got to Israel or Italy – and I know he wanted to go to those places. I know he wanted to go with Todd and Jeff to Israel – he talked to Jeff often about going with him one day. He wanted to see what so many people had so much faith in. He talked about going to Italy with Dorothy and Nicole – he wanted to see Bonefro, where Grandma is from, and share in her memories of her times there. He never got to go to either place.

He loved snowboarding. He went every chance he had when he was at school. He went to Vail more times in three years than most skiers go in a lifetime. He boarding every mountain there as well as the back bowl – where only the most skilled boarders dare to go. He loved Vail, and I got to experience it with him many times as well – it is some of my best memories with him in the recent years – especially the times Nicole went with us. When we were there he talked about going boarding in the summer up in Canada. He talked about going boarding in Italy and the Alps, maybe being dropped at the top of a mountain from a helicopter. Again, these are things he never got to experience – he only got dream about them. And those dreams are gone now.

As we all know, he loved to drive. He loved to drive his Jetta and absolutely loved to drive his six speed RX-8. Windows down, sunroof open, stereo wailing away, wearing his cool Ray Bans and his ski cap. He would have Eminem or some rap artist playing, but not too loud – he liked to hear the motor running and the sound the tires made against the pavement. Thanks to one of my closest friends, Andrew also got to experience driving an amazing Porsche. What a smile he had and exhilaration he felt. In that instant he knew he wanted one. He could feel that was in his future. All of a sudden he had a goal he wanted to achieve. We also talked about going to driving school in CT together – where they teach performance driving – emergency handling, high speed turns, handling spin outs, learning how to corner better and to really take advantage of what his Mazda could do.  But once again, he was cheated. We both were.

We were also supposed to play in an adult hockey league his last summer. But his broken hand prevented that. It took away our father and son time – it cheated us both. Luckily we did play in a few games together the prior summer, and I will cherish those memories. Andrew said I was too slow on the ice, and I couldn’t shoot – like I needed my son to tell me that. He said if I stand in front of the net, he would pass me the puck so I could score. I am not sure if that worked or not, but at least he tried. I see so many other dads from my adult league playing hockey with their kids, and I know I am being cheated out of that. I see the pictures of them together on Facebook, huge proud smiles on their faces. And I will miss that. Maybe Nicole will let me play on her team one day.

Making ice cream at the Farm

I look in his room at what he did have. Bracelets he made at the farm. Wrist bands from the cruises we took. An armrest from his high school auditorium. Some broken hockey sticks, trophies too many to count, and I smile at those things. I smile at what is there, what he left behind of his experiences.

Playing shuffleboard at the farm

I know he loved going to the farm. He had such good farm friends that meant so much to him. He kept everything he ever made at the farm to remind him of the good time. This past summer, our farm friends made Dorothy and me a scrapbook of pictures of Andrew, and notes from those who knew him at the farm. It means so much to us to have that scrapbook. We know how long it must have taken them to make it, and we appreciate it, we look at it all the time.

He loved to spend time with his friends in town, by the woods, or in a parking lot nearby. Just hanging out. He would sit out there with the same people for hours and hours and talk about the same stuff over and over again – all the while with no shoes on. I guess the no shoes was an Andrew and Wally thing.

I see his paintball markers (guns). He had pods, and masks, and bags, and all the other accessories that he needed to play for hours. Back in school, he and a bunch of his friends would go to Park Lane, where there were dozens of unexplored acres and they would play all day. They would break for lunch and grandma was always glad to make something for him and his friends, or we would have pizza brought in, then back to the paint.

Some of our closest friends with us on a cruise

He also has the ticket board I wrote about before. How many kids his age go to experience The Who in concert – not once but twice.  We all go to see an unforgettable evening with Meatloaf in the front of a very small venue. He went to numerous Jets games, Rangers games, playoff games, World Series, NBA Finals, and so on. He was a certified Scuba diver at thirteen and we dove all over the Caribbean – together – especially with his sister and mother.

There are so many things to smile at in his room. I have to learn, as so many others have, to treasure what he did get to see and do, to treasure what he treasured, and to know he had a great life.

So I look up in first class, and I know he never got to experience that. But what he did experience was amazing. What Dorothy and I were able to give him during his lifetime makes us happy. Now I can close my eyes, take my nap, and know that for the few short years that I had him, I gave him whatever I could.