Blog.

A tribute that includes fishing, snoring, and La-Z-Boy chairs. Dear Papa Bear, I don’t know what my first memory of you is. You’ve just always been. I remember staying the night at your house when I was a kid–so many sleepovers. I would wake up for two reasons: you were snoring or you were leaving for work at Dow Chemical at 5 a.m. in the morning and it was still dark. That darkness impressed me, it meant you were responsible. That snoring scared me at first and then turned c

I finally realize what that dumb grief-centered phrase, “the new normal,” means. Hey Andrew, This week you’ll have been gone 27-years. I’m about to turn 40 which means that you would be turning 35 this year. You are part of our family history at this point. We’ll never forget you, we can’t, but so much has happened between 1992 and 2019 that I have begun to wrestle with the fact that you were only 7-years of my story. Georgia is 7-years old. Right now, she is as much of my st

Why is it that the things we remember the most are the hard things-the things that hurt? Why do our brains go to that first, rather than characterize a moment in time with something more positive? You know what I mean. If you can’t say something nice, don’t say it at all. For every negative comment, say five positive. Hurt people, hurt people. Be kind whenever possible, it’s always possible. Be kind, you don’t know who is facing a battle… there are whole sites devoted to quot

“Mom, I woke up thinking I want a hamster or a snake for Christmas. I’m going to make a chart of pros and cons to decide which one I want more, okay?” Georgia’s Chart of Pros and Cons That was how my morning started out yesterday. Of course, Georgia woke up thinking about a pet for Christmas. Our crazy dog Spot, formerly crazy cat Olive, and her sister weren’t enough. I was honestly more surprised a hamster was in the running and not something more exotic like a Gila monster,

My space at work. Two adorable faces staring back at me. Tomorrow starts another work week. When you were six or so you decided you wanted to be a scientist. Mom got you a lab coat, dad got you test tubes and I may have rolled my eyes. I always thought you were the smart one. I’m horrid at math and science. You loved science at least. Sadly, seven years old is hardly an age to judge aptitude. Andrew and his lab coat. (Ignore the crinkles. Photo was damaged.) It sounds totally

Exit Stage Left On May 1, 1992, my seven-year-old brother was crossing the street to get the mail. He stepped off of the school bus, crossed the road, and was hit by a pick-up truck. He did not live. I was three weeks away from my 13th birthday. My hope for this blog is not to gain sympathy. Crap happens (good things happen too.) The goal of this blog is to help other siblings with their loss and know that they are not alone. When lives are snuffed out before their time, the