postcardstodad

[postcardstodad]

One checked bag, but a whole lot of baggage

 One thing I never fully realized about grief was that it can literally hit you at the most random (and most inconvenient) moments imaginable.  Case and point, this morning, as I went to check my bag for the holidays, I burst into tears as several shellshocked American employees looked on.  As I hoisted my bag up (fingers crossed it was under the weight limit), it hit me that the last time I used it was just over 5 years ago for a flight I never dreamed I’d have to take.  I’d been woken up at 6am by a call from my Mom telling me that I needed to get on a flight as soon as possible.  Not even knowing where to start or how to process any of that, I grabbed my biggest suitcase and just started filling it with armfuls of clothing.  I had no idea what I was even throwing in that bag.  The only real moment I remember from that morning was standing in front of several black dresses and refusing to pack a single one.  To do that felt like I was telling my Dad I was giving up.  And I just couldn’t do that.  So I left the black dress behind (later having to rely on my good friend Natalie to go to my place and pick something out for me).  

Sure, this is just a suitcase.  But this morning, it represented a whole lot more than that to me.  It represented my biggest moment of desperation -- calling the airline and speaking the words for the first and only time, “my dad is dying,” pleading with them to get me as close as possible, as quickly as possible, to Savannah.  It represented me at my most vulnerable, crying openly in O’Hare airport, not caring what I looked like to anyone passing by.  It represented me coming face to face with my single greatest fear -- having to say goodbye to someone who means the world to me and simply not being ready.  But, today, it also represented just how far I’ve come.  I’m stronger than I was 5 years ago.  I’m capable of handling much more than I ever realized was possible.  These days, thinking of my Dad usually brings a smile or laugh instead of tears.  Slowly but surely, I’m finding my footing in the new normal.  It hasn’t been easy or simple but I’m getting there.  And, along the way, I’ve realized that, as much as I’ve lost, I still have so much to be grateful for. I can’t wait to land and give my family a big, tight hug and tell them exactly that.  To anyone reading this, I hope you’ll do the same today.  

[postcardstodad]

Love, Your Girls

The other day at work, I read a script called “Love, Your Girl.”  It was about a girl writing letters to her Dad who, we eventually come to find out, had passed away.  What’s that you say?  That’s the entire premise of this blog?  Very true.  But what it made me realize is that it’s been an unforgivable amount of time since I last wrote.  

It’s not because I don’t still think of you every day.  I think you know me well enough to know that could never be the case.  Life got busy and, blah, blah, blah...I know, there’s no excuse.  So here’s a long overdue catch up, hitting on the high notes:

Let’s start with Mom....you would be SO ridiculously proud of her.  She’s channeling her immense talent and creativity into a jewelry business.  She’s already got some “regulars” and has even developed a relationship with a boutique in Florida.  Beyond that, she’s proving every, single day that she was made to be a grandma (or a Dot-Dot in our world).  Wren and Russell absolutely adore her and watching them together makes me so happy. She talks about you a lot and, these days, our talks usually bring more laughter than tears.  Which is what we like to call progress.  

Lindsey...our girl is now the CEO of the Hilton Head Island Concours d’Elegance.  Yes, you read that right.  And I bet you’re not the least bit surprised either.  She was made for this role and unsurprisingly is already making a huge impact.  In addition to all her responsibilities there, she’s doing an amazing job of raising two tiny, crazy humans.  Honestly, you’d be beaming with pride to watch her navigate life as a mom.  She’s always coming up with fun, creative things to do with the kids and really makes life an adventure for them...something that reminds me a ton of you.

Wade...he’s still kicking ass at work, of course.  But, more than that, he’s kicking ass at being a Dad.  He’s so insanely awesome with Wren and Russell.  Watching them together brings back so many memories I have with you.  I’m not going to lie, the first time I heard he was taking Wren on a “date,” I just about lost it.  If that’s not a patented Russ Brown move, I don’t know what is.  He’s also doing an incredible job at the helm of For The Win, our foundation we started in your honor.  We just had our 3rd annual Russ Brown Memorial Invitational and it was amazing.  It’s quickly becoming one of my favorite events of the year -- probably because it gives us the chance to surround ourselves with people who loved you....and there’s nothing better than that.

As for me...I got promoted a few months ago and, as happy as that day was, it was also one of the hardest I’ve had in a while.  Because all I wanted to do was call you to tell you about it.  In fact, you would have been my very first phone call.  But I like to think you knew anyway.  I know you’re still here for all the big moments....not in the way I’d like, of course....but you’re here.  A pity party isn’t something I normally RSVP to but, dammit, what I wouldn’t give to be able to grab a beer and just properly catch up at Old Oyster Factory.

Speaking of which, that’s where this picture above is from.  We took it the night of our awards dinner for the golf tournament.  We thought it felt right to take a picture in “your spot” at the bar.  The same spot where we’ve had a million and one amazing conversations.  The spot where I’d sit and wish that these moments could last forever.  The spot where I realized just how lucky I was to have a Dad who I considered a best friend.  

I promise I won’t let so much time pass until my next letter.  Until then...

We miss you and love you to the moon and back.

Love,

Your Girls

[postcardstodad]

The Power of Your Happy Place

This time of year is always a little difficult.  It’s the weekend of the Master’s, which was far and away, your favorite time of year. Augusta National was most definitely your happy place.  

And a person’s happy place can be a really powerful thing.

I didn’t know it at the time but in April of 2014, you had just been told that your leukemia had come back yet again and that it was time to get your affairs in order.  Your doctors who, up until that moment, had been some of your biggest champions essentially told you they were at a loss.  They didn’t know how to get you healthy enough to undergo a second bone marrow transplant.  I can’t even fathom what hearing those words does to a person.  I don’t know how someone keeps moving forward after that.  I don’t understand how you didn’t just throw in the towel right then and there.

 But that simply wasn’t who you were.  You drove to August National to watch the Master’s like you did every year.  And there, in your happy place, you decided that you weren’t done fighting yet.  You decided there was too much good still left to experience.  You decided you’d do whatever you could to beat the beast of an opponent you’d been in the ring with for close to two years.  Your journey eventually took to you to MD Anderson where you met a doctor with just as much fight and optimism as you.  I honestly believed that, together, you were going to beat this thing.

But sometimes, all the fight and optimism in the world can’t make things right.  

Augusta National will always remind me of you – a person with more strength and resilience than anyone I’ll ever know.  Every time I see those rolling greens and magnolias in full bloom, I’ll think of you.  I’ll picture you eating a pimento cheese sandwich, drinking a beer and cheering on golf’s best.  And, because of that, it’s now my happy place, too.

I miss you and love you to the moon and back,

Elizabeth

[postcardstodad]

What’s In A Name

I know it’s been an inexcusable amount of time since I last wrote – hopefully by now you know, it’s never because I’m not thinking about you.  I think of you every, single day.

 There’s a lot I could tell you about right now but most of it feels so mundane.  So let’s skip to the big news which is that, last weekend I met my new nephew, Russell.  Yes, you finally got that grandson named after you.  And as I write that last sentence, I realize just how cruel and callous life can be sometimes.  It kills me (and all of us) that you aren’t here to meet this sweet, cuddly, 10-pound pumpkin.  But what kills me even more is that he’ll never have the chance to know YOU – because, man, is he missing out.

 I’ll do my best to let him know just how special his name and the man behind it really was…so in a small deviation from my normal format, today I thought I’d write to him instead.

 Dear Russell,

I’m sure you’ll hear no shortage of stories about your Big Russ, who you were named after.  As someone who takes great pride in being named after my paternal grandmother, I figured I’d let you in on just how awesome your namesake really was.

 He was the kind of person that commanded the attention of any room he walked into. He had a truly magnetic personality that people just couldn’t get enough of.  It wasn’t unusual to feel like I was with the unofficial “Mayor” of Hilton Head whenever I’d go visit.  Everyone loved it when Russ was in the mix – it just meant you were in for a good time and plenty of laughs.

He was a true gentleman. Despite having a big, entertaining personality, he also had a total soft side.  He wrote love notes to his wife even after 30 years of marriage.  He took both of his daughters on regular “dates” when they were growing up. He sent flowers and cards to all “his girls” on Valentines Day. He pulled out chairs at the dinner table.  He was the master of compliments.  He said I love you every, single day.

He was absolutely hilarious (and by “hilarious,” I mean crazy).  But crazy in the best possible way.  He was always the first to come up with a wild scheme and it almost always felt right to just follow him.  Hitting golf balls into the neighbor’s backyard party.  Sure, why not?  Staying up until 3am drinking when you have a 6am flight?  Yep, sign me up.  He just made life more fun.

 He was ridiculously cool. Despite the couple of years in junior high when I was mortified by his choice in denim and insistence on wearing a cowboy hat (in Northern VA), I was always beyond proud to call him my Dad. When he would come to eat lunch with me in grade school, I would beam from ear-to-ear.  When he’d show up to swim meets, I always felt so lucky that the tall, handsome guy cheering louder than everyone else in the stands was my Dad. When he’d come to visit me in Chicago, he’d be the life of any party or place I took him to.

He had an enormous heart of gold.  When it comes to friends, they really don’t come better than him.  Which is probably why over 200 people showed up to his celebration of life.

 He was a total badass and as tough as they come.  He ran marathons, played football, could hit jaw-dropping drives on the golf course….but all of that paled in comparison to the 2.5 years he courageously battled AML. He worked out through chemo, radiation and a bone marrow transplant, even asking (or, more accurately, telling) his nurses to unhook him from his IV so he could go down and workout in the hospital gym.  I’ll probably never witness a feat of strength quite like that ever again.  

To me, the name Russell is full of strength, optimism and awesomeness.  Big Russ left pretty sizable shoes to fill but, after meeting you last weekend, I have no doubt you’re up to the task.

 I love you both to the moon and back,

Elizabeth

[postcardstodad]

A Million Tiny Deaths

[postcardstodad]

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

For some reason, this Father’s Day has hit me hard.  It’s my second one without you but, somehow, it’s worse than the first.  Maybe it’s because with every new year comes a bit more permanence.  Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always understood the permanence of our situation – but with more time and space between us, I understand it just a little bit more intensely.

BUT, just because I may not be able to pick out the perfect gift or write a card I know will end up in the collection you kept in your nightstand, that doesn’t mean I can’t celebrate you….

So this year, in celebration of you, I want to say thank you…..

Thank you for over 3 decades worth of friendship.  Yes, I know you were always the first to say “I’m your father, not your friend.”  But that line only worked when you were trying to enforce a curfew – because for all of my adult life, you’ve been one of my best friends.  The guy I could count on for epic weekend visits to Chicago.  The guy I could talk to for HOURS across any table or bellied up to any bar.  The guy who I’d literally count down the weeks/days/hours ‘til I got to see him again.

Thank you for raising two daughters who always knew that they could be anything, do anything.  With you, the sky was the limit and the bigger the dream, the better.  Every time I’ve ever felt myself questioning whether I could take something on, you were that kick-ass voice in my head, urging me onward and upward.    

Thank you for always being one of my biggest supporters.  From high school swim meets, to job interviews, to the decision to take time off from life in Chicago to be with you, you’ve always been there cheering me on. I’d be lying if I said that making you proud wasn’t one of the best feelings in the world.  And, even today, nearly two years after we said goodbye, or as I like to think of it “see you later,” I still try to make you proud with everything I do.

Thank you for making it so easy to love saying “I’m Russ’ daughter.”  I know I’ve told you a million times before but I’ll tell you again – I honestly couldn’t be prouder to call you my Dad.  Aside from those few years in middle school where I dreaded going anywhere with you (partially because I was an asshole, but partially because you had a real penchant for tight jeans in the 90s), I have honestly never had a single minute where I wasn’t bursting with pride to be one of “Russ’ girls.”

Thank you for being the kind of Dad who I wanted to talk to every day.  Every. Single. Day.  And sometimes, even more than once.  And for also being the kind of Dad who, if you hadn’t heard from me by 8pm, all but called out the search committee.  I always hated making you worry – but I love that you cared enough to do so.

Thank you for fighting. I now know just how remarkable your 27-month fight was – while most people diagnosed with AML make it 6 months, you made it over two years. So thank you for those extra years….while no measure of time would have ever been enough with you, I will forever be grateful for the extra time we got.

Thank you for giving me perspective. That family (whether it’s your given or your chosen one) is everything. That there’s always room for “I love you” in a conversation.  That sweating the small stuff is pointless.  That worrying isn’t worth your time – because the one thing you never saw coming will be the thing that knocks the wind right out of you.

Thank you for being the kind of Dad who left me with no regrets.  As hard as life has been (and will continue to be) without you, I can’t even begin to imagine what it would be like had there been anything left unsaid between us.  All that I’ve said above, you’ve already heard (and likely more than once).  And I feel so incredibly lucky that’s the case.

But, most of all, thank you for the being the kind of Dad worth missing.  While I hate that I wake up most days and head to bed most nights missing you, I take comfort in the fact that it’s only because I loved you so much.  The amount of grief I feel is in direct proportion to how big of a place you held, and will always hold, in my heart -- so thank you for being the kind of Dad worth occupying so much of it.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I miss you and love you to the moon and back. 

Elizabeth

[postcardstodad]

I know I’m late in saying this but Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, Dad.  As it goes with any new year, you often find yourself in a state of reflection.  And, this year, as I head into 2016, it’s with the surprising realization that I’m truly one of the lucky ones.  

I know… I had to read that a second time as well.  On the surface, it sounds pretty strange.  But hear me out.  Ever since you were diagnosed in May of 2012, I’ve felt largely UN-lucky.  Of course, there were moments over the last four years where I felt like we’d gotten a little bit of our luck back (after your bone marrow transplant was first deemed a success, any time we’d hear those two beautiful words from your doctor, “in remission”).  But I’d be lying if I didn’t fess up to feeling decidedly unlucky since we lost you.  I mean, when you lose someone who occupied such a big piece of your heart, is that really such a strange way to feel?

However, as I sit here in the Greenville airport choking back tears after saying goodbye to Mom, Lindsey, Wade and Wren, it struck me just how incredibly lucky I actually am. I have the kind of family where, even after spending 16 days together, we’re sad to see it end.  A lot of people would walk away from over two weeks with family thinking “yep, probably overestimated the number of days we needed to spend together.”  But, not me. I’m never ready to say goodbye to my people.  

First there’s Mom – man, she’s something else.  I know you’re thinking “tell me something I don’t know” but every minute I get to spend with her is a reminder that I hit the jackpot in the Mom department.  She’s still the best welcome wagon I know of, picking me up from the airport with a warm smile, an even warmer hug and lots of late-night snacks.  She’ll kick my ass on every, single run we go on together like the complete badass that she is (but then tell me she was struggling to try and make me feel a little better).  She’ll let me talk about you as much as I want, even if it sometimes (ok fine, usually) makes her cry.  And when she hugs me goodbye and tells me “I just love you so much,” I know she means it from the bottom of her heart.  They don’t come any better than her….that much I’m sure of.  

Then there’s Lindsey – you’d be so proud of the woman and Mom she’s becoming.  Watching her with Wren, well, it’s enough to melt your heart. And I see so much of your parenting style in her – from funny little nicknames, to wrestling matches before bedtime, she’s quickly shaping up to be that awesome kind of parent who later in life becomes your best friend.  And, as someone who’s spent the better part of 3 decades with her as my own best friend, I know just how lucky that makes Wren.

And Wade – as I wrote to him in my Christmas card this year, he’s becoming more like you every, single day – and, honestly, there’s no higher compliment I could pay someone. He cracks me up on a regular basis but he’s also got one of the biggest hearts around….which comes across loud and clear when you watch him for any measure of time with his daughter…he’s got nothing but pure love for that little girl and I know one day, she’ll look at him like he hung the moon – the same way Lindsey and I did with you.  

And then, of course, there’s Wren.  It kills me that you never had the chance to meet her because, man, would she make you laugh.  Not small, insignificant laughs but big, hearty laughs that really stick with you. She’s got mischief behind those big, blue eyes of hers, that’s for sure….but it only makes her more awesome.  She’s silly and sassy and incredibly sweet and there’s no doubt in my mind that she will be one of my favorite people around.

These four people, along with you, are my whole world….and when that’s the case, it’s hard not to feel really, truly lucky.

Now, don’t get me wrong, it’s not all sunshine and roses.  There are still many moments when I’m missing you so bad that breathing feels like a chore….and in those moments, I might forget what good fortune I have.  But then I remind myself that there’s another way to look at things – to recognize that the sense of loss I feel is in proportion to the size of the gift I was given with you as my Dad – and for that, I know I will always be one of the lucky ones.  

So here’s to 2016 and all that it has to offer!

I miss you and love you to the moon and back,

Elizabeth

[postcardstodad]

Your Delinquent Daughter

It’s been way too long since I’ve written....but, as you hopefully know, it’s certainly not because I’m thinking of you less.  I think of you about 100 times a day.  And more and more, when I think of you, I smile instead of feeling sad.  That’s progress, right?  But there are still plenty of times when I turn into a weepy mess. Like tonight.  I was moving stuff around in the top of my guest room closet and knocked a huge box down to the floor.  The contents spilled out everywhere and I could see a card resting near the top of the pile.  As I opened it, it felt like the wind was knocked out of me - so much so that I had to sit down.  It was the birthday card you wrote to me in 2014, about two weeks before we said goodbye.  You were so sick when you wrote it that it’s almost hard to make out your handwriting....but there it was....the last words you’d ever write to me.  It’s moments like this one where I miss you so badly that I feel like I can barely breathe; where I cry harder than I ever thought possible.  I cry until it feels like I’m empty....and then the only thing I can think to do, to help the pain to subside, is write to you.

Since I last wrote, a lot has happened:

Your granddaughter, Wren, turned one last month.  She’s walking and babbling and standing on her head -- turns out, she’s absolutely hilarious.  It breaks my heart that you never had the chance to meet her but I believe that, in some way, you are seeing her and getting to know her now.  Her favorite picture to point to at home is the one of the five of us during your birthday weekend in Charleston -- that one on the rooftop where we were having some afternoon cocktails.  She points to you and just giggles and I honestly believe she knows that’s her Papa Bear Russ.  I always say that she missed out on meeting one of the all-time greatest people in the world.  But then I have to remind myself that she’s not going to miss out -- she’ll meet you through all of us.  Believe me, just as soon as she loses interest in Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and will sit still for more than 30 seconds, Papa Bear stories are in the cue!

Lindsey, Wade, Wren and Mom are all living in a new house in Greenville which is really exciting.  It’s got a ton more room, is in the cutest neighborhood and has a huge side yard for Winston and Charlie to lounge in.  I’ve only been once so far but I’m looking forward to spending the holidays there.  Of course, this isn’t the situation that any of us saw ourselves in (and we’d give virtually anything to have life go back to the pre-2012 era) but this is what we have to work with now.  And I think you’d be proud of us.  Actually, I know you would.  We’re trying our hardest to make the best of the new normal.  

I ran the marathon again.  I know, I know -- I keep saying I’m done.  But I ran this last one with Team in Training to raise money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.  I pulled my hamstring pretty badly a couple of weeks before race day so I ran in pretty extreme pain for 18 of the 26.2 miles.  BUT, I finished and raised over $15,000 in the process.  As I crossed that finish line, I’ve honestly never felt more like your daughter -- it took everything I had to keep going in that amount of pain -- and that included Mom jumping in at mile 17!  She took me all the way to just past the 25 mile marker at which point she turned me loose after telling me how proud you’d be of me.  As you know better than anyone, she’s the world’s best cheerleader and gave me exactly what I needed to make it to end of the race.  As hard as the 26.2 miles were, I think the even harder part was knowing I couldn’t call you afterward to tell you all about it.  I thought about how the last time I ran the marathon, you streamed it live from your chair at home, watching me cross the finish line.  I remember getting on FaceTime with you when I finally got home and seeing the pride on your face.  Making you proud was the best feeling in the world.

I’ll stop here because, frankly, I’m running out of Kleenex.  I promise not to wait so long before I write again.  And, until then, just know I’m always thinking of you, always missing you and, forever and always, love you to the moon and back.

Elizabeth

[postcardstodad]

Yay, ‘Merica.

The only thing that seems to be consistent about grief is its inconsistency.  It rears its ugly head in the strangest of places during the strangest of times.  

Yesterday was the 4th of July -- there’s no reason in the world why this holiday should make me sad.  It wasn’t a particular favorite of yours.  It wasn’t something we made a huge deal out of every year.  And, yet, last night I found myself riding home at the end of the night in a cab very drunk, listening to my cabbie’s choice of the heaviest of metal, tears streaming down my face.

Here’s what I can figure....

1.  July 4th, 2014 is the last time I remember all of us being together as a family and actually feeling normal and happy.  Just a few weeks later, the bottom would drop out of our world.  So I look back at the 4th now as a memory of just how good life can be.  And how quickly that can all change.

2.  I had the extremely good fortune of spending last night with the Montgomery family and a few of my friends here.  We went up on the terrace at the Trump and had incredible seats for the fireworks.  We ate a seafood tower (called “The Penthouse” of course) and there were many oysters eaten in your honor.  We talked about you a lot, naturally.  And when I went to hug Joe goodbye at the end of the night, I was overcome with a feeling of missing you so badly I could barely stand it.  Joe gave me a bear-hug like I haven’t had since, well, you.  I’m not sure if I’ve ever told you this before but you were a world class hugger.  You gave the kind of hugs that just radiated with love -- big, warm and never over too quick.  I miss those hugs more than I can even begin to express -- it’s something Lindsey and I talk about often.  Your hugs were, like you, one-of-a-kind.  But Joe’s hug last night came awful close -- and it got me, big time.  

3.  I also did one of the longest runs I’ve done in a while yesterday.  Which always makes me think of you.  It also made me think about how, last time I trained for the marathon, you were my biggest supporter.  I’d call you after every long run to tell you how I did and what I had come up with to eat afterward in celebration.  Yesterday as I finished up my nine miler, it was just another reminder of how many things have changed for me by not having you around.  It’s all the obvious things -- and then tons of not-so-obvious things, too.  

At nearly 11 months into this whole grieving thing, I’ve officially given up on it ever becoming easy.  That’s just not in the cards.  More manageable, sure.  But never easy.  And I guess that’s to be expected - when you left this earth, you took a little piece of my heart and soul with you.  I’m not the same person I was.  But I’ll be ok.  I really will.  I’ll never stop missing you or feeling the pain of you being gone -- but I’m making room for happiness again, too.  And last night, that took the form of getting drunk on a rooftop in Chicago, smiling and laughing, surrounded by people I love.  You would have loved it.

I miss you and love you to the moon and back,

Elizabeth

[postcardstodad]

Telling it like it is.

So, here’s the deal – these last nine months have been pretty fucking brutal.  Sorry, I know you hate it when I swear but there’s no possible way to sugarcoat this one.  I always knew losing you was going to be the hardest thing any of us had ever dealt with – but I truly had no idea what we were in for.  I had no idea what this process of grieving was actually going to feel like.  And, that’s the tough part – you feel like you’re navigating blindly through the strangest, most uncomfortable terrain.  You have no idea how you’re doing at “handling” things…..because nobody really tells you about the good, the bad and the ugly of grieving.  So this post is here, for anyone out there who recently joined this club that NOBODY wants to be a part of, attempting to pave the way a bit and, hopefully, letting you know you’re not alone in what you’re feeling  -- even if what you’re feeling is “how the hell did we get here?  Or “is this really my life?”  So, here you go….a few of the things I wish someone would have told me:

1.     Stop waiting for it to get easier.  Because it’s not going to.  Bearable, yes.  But not easier.  How can living without one of your favorite people on the planet ever be considered easy? You will have days that feel a little bit easier – where you get through it fairly smoothly, come to the end of it and realize “hey, I never burst out crying today.  Rock on.”  And then you will have days where you’d just assume stay in your pajamas, sitting on the couch, eating warm, gooey comfort foods and watching sappy Lifetime movies. You don’t, of course.  Because that would make you look and feel like one giant cliché. So you’ll get up, even when you feel like you can’t.  Because life will keep on moving.  It has to keep moving.

 2.     You will feel genuinely happy again.  Really.  It will happen.  You’ll find yourself smiling and laughing and realize it’s not just for show – you’re actually feeling some semblance of happiness.  For me, it happened this last weekend when little Wren bird looked up at me and gave me the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen.  And then again when we played Cards Against Humanity and were all sitting at the dining room table cracking up.  Of course, this happiness doesn’t come without a small wave of sadness, too – because, in my heart, I’ll always know this moment would have been so much better/sillier/funnier/happier with you as a part of it.

 3.     You can try and shield yourself from “feeling too much” but it’s always going to be a futile effort.  You don’t need to make things harder on yourself (for example, you should probably just delete any Bon Iver from any and all playlists right about now) but, the truth is, things that shouldn’t make you sad, have absolutely NO business making you sad, can still end up making you sad.  The point is – there’s no rhyme or reason to when or why you’re feeling what you’re feeling – (case and point:  yesterday, I started crying while listening to Destiny’s Child’s “Lose my Breath.”  Like I said, there’s no rhyme or reason).

 4.     And sometimes you will go the complete opposite direction – instead of trying to shield yourself from feeling too much you will dive headfirst in to a big ‘ol pile of emotion (which sounds vaguely like Ron Burgundy’s “glass case of emotion.”)  I’m lucky enough to have a handful of voicemails saved on my phone from you.  Some days, for whatever reason, I need to listen to them despite knowing what they’ll do to me.  Every, single time I will spend the next 20-30 minutes crying to the point of exhaustion.  But then I will sleep like a baby.  I’m telling you, getting a good cry in is better than any Sleep-Aid on the market.  

 5.     Speaking of crying….you should just get used to crying in public.  You could be standing virtually anywhere when you feel that pinprick of tears forming behind your eyelids.  You can bite down on your lip as hard as you want, trying to stop the persistent chin wobble but there’s really no point in fighting the inevitable. Just let it go.  Sitting in seat 9A on a flight back to Chicago – let it go. Waiting in the drive-thru line at the pharmacy – let it go.  While out on a run – let it go.   You’d be surprised at how many people will reach out to make sure you’re ok – people really are better than we give them credit for.

 6.     You’re going to feel angry.  From time to time, you may find yourself thinking some pretty dark things.  It doesn’t make you a bad person.  It makes you human.   I mean, the universe took one of the most important people away from me. It’s only fair for me to flip the universe the bird once in a while.  The important thing here is not to let this anger fester – because that’s exactly the moment it becomes useless.  So channel it towards something positive.  Raise money for a cause you believe in.  Use it to push yourself toward a goal you never thought you could accomplish.  There’s really no wrong feelings in this scenario, even anger.

Grief sucks, plain and simple.  There’s no wrong way to go through it – except maybe not to go through it at all.  

So there you have it – what I’ve learned over the last nine months.

I miss you and love you to the moon and back,

Elizabeth

[postcardstodad]

Just felt like talking...

It’s been a while since I last wrote....and, believe me, it’s not because I haven’t been thinking about you.  If it’s possible, I think of you a little more every day.  Funny how that works -- the further away I get from our goodbye, the more it hurts.  Seems backwards.  But, then again, I’m new to this.

Since our last exchange...

I’ve had my first trip to the ER.  And I’m sad to say it was in place of a trip to Augusta for the Masters.  I know, right?  In what world is that a fair tradeoff?  The day I was supposed to be leaving, I woke up at 4am with a seriously inflated lip.  Now, I know I have a flair for the dramatic but I’m telling you, this was the biggest lip you’ve ever seen without the help of a great deal of collagen.  As I told Mom, I was somewhere between a Who from Who-ville and Lisa Rinna.  I’m still waiting to hear what could have been the cause of my allergic reaction but you can relax -- it wasn’t red wine or chocolate.  Phew.  The good news is that, while in the hospital, I officially met 3 of the most gorgeous men alive -- my attending doctors.  Naturally, I was thrilled that I could be introduced to them in my Who-like state.  I can almost feel you laughing.

Speaking of laughing, I took Mom to “Book of Mormon” where she could watch Hitler, Johnny Cochran and Jeffrey Dahmer shimmy to their hearts desire in a “spooky Mormon hell dream.”  Yes, it was as insane as it sounds.  But I looked to my right and saw Mom smiling for nearly 3 hours straight so it might very well be the best money I’ve ever spent.  

I’ve finally logged back in to FaceTime.  Of course, it brought on the initial kick to the gut that I knew it would, bringing up my list of “favorites” and seeing your name right there.  You have no idea how badly I was tempted to click on it -- the same way I’m tempted to click on your name whenever I scroll into the vicinity of it on my phone.  But back to reality -- FaceTime is how I get my weekly dose of sweet baby Wren (oh, yeah, and Mom, Lindsey and Wade -- I’d hate to offend my loyal readership by not mentioning them here).  You wouldn’t believe how insanely cute Wren is and, sometimes, I think she actually understands it’s me on the other side of the screen.  I like to think her eyes get a little wider and her smile a little bigger whenever she sees “Smoochie” (work in progress nickname, by the way -- what’d you think?).

Tonight, I watched the world’s WORST movie which, of course, made me think of you.  Let’s be honest, you had a real knack for selecting terrible movies -- I used to love when Mom would say things like “oh, I heard that was just awful” and you’d bravely press on, reviews be damned.  But, damn, if those reviews aren’t there for a reason.  Tonight’s terrible choice was “The Boy Next Door” with J.Lo -- I mean, that right there should have been the only indication I’d need that I’d be regretting my decision about 10 minutes in.  But, somehow, by selecting the cheesiest movie in the bunch, I felt I did you proud.  I’d hate to end your bad movie streak now (please reference:  “Battleship” starring Rihanna; “Black Knight” starring Martin Lawrence and “Oscar” starring Sylvester Stallone).

Lastly, I had something pretty amazing happen about 2 weeks ago.  I got an email from a complete stranger and, at first, thought she must have me confused with someone else.  But as I read on, I learned that she’d been  “introduced” to you through a mutual friend.  Her husband has been fighting AML since 2009 and the Larsons had told them all about you and your story.  Her husband had also undergone a bone marrow transplant only to relapse a few months ago - a feeling our family knows all too well -- getting through something as difficult as a transplant only to have that victory snatched away with a relapse.  As I said to her, this is a disease that just doesn’t fight fair.  But I also told her I believe with everything that’s in me that there’s a cure on the horizon -- speaking of which, I’ve raised nearly $8000 so far for my Team in Training marathon efforts.  Not too shabby, huh?  All this is just to say, I hope you know how far your influence stretches.  That there are people out there, well beyond the scope of your family and friends, who admire your strength and courage.  People who will keep fighting because you no longer can.  You always have been and always will be one of the most inspiring people I know.  And I’m just so lucky to call you my Dad.

That’s about it for now.  So until next time.....

I miss you and love you to the moon and back,

Elizabeth

[postcardstodad]

Vacationing in the New Normal

Last Saturday, Mom, Lindsey, Wren and I got back from a week in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico.  As I looked down at the new passport stamp I acquired, it got me thinking about all the stamps I’d racked up on trips with you.  And, of course, that also got me thinking about some of our more memorable experiences.

Passport Stamp:  Ireland, 11 years old

In between 5th and 6th grade, we took a trip to Ireland and, at the time, Lindsey and I thought this was such a strange choice.  I mean, they put corn on their pizza and made you “rent” swimming caps to go into the pool.  Weird.  But this was also the first vacation when I realized that “vacation Russ” was even crazier than regular Russ.  Cut to a lovely picnic lunch alongside the Cliffs of Moher.  We finished eating and went to take in the view.  You thought it would be hilarious to act as though you were slipping and falling over the side of the insanely steep cliffs.  You swiftly disappeared out of sight and after Mom, Lindsey and I all went into hysterics, we could make out the sound of laughing from the ledge below (that only you had spotted). Thinking about that still sends a chill up my spine – being a real bore is something I’d never be able to accuse you of.  This was also the trip when we went to the Medieval Banquet and you got hammered on Mead -- I still love looking at the pictures from that night -- you looked insane and the three of us looked absolutely pained.  I’m not going to lie -- part of me was hoping they’d throw you in the dungeon for the evening (sort of like a medieval drunk tank).  

Passport Stamp:  Mexico, 13 years old

During perhaps my most awkward year ever (you can’t deny it, 13 was not a year that looked good on me), we took a trip to Cabo San Lucas.  It was here that you taught me a very important lesson I still carry with me today -- you can follow all the rules -- or you can have a lot of fun.  We took out a jet ski one day and were instructed to stay clear of the arch and the cove beyond that because the waves would be massive.  You nodded and as soon as we were out on the water turned and asked me -- “do you want to follow that rule or do you want to have some serious fun?”  Duh.  I chose fun.  So off we went, through the arch and into the cove.  Yep, there was a definite reason why they set that rule -- I’m not sure either of us had ever hit the water with such force as during that wreck.  It took us nearly 10 minutes to get back on the jet ski because we were laughing so hard.  

Passport Stamp:  Spain, 15 years old

This was the trip where you introduced Lindsey and I to the “fruit Olympics.”  The concept was simple – take the fresh fruit from our hotel room and see who can throw it the farthest from our balcony.  Bonus points if you could hit a car on the street. Double bonus points if you could set off that car’s alarm. This was also the trip where we spotted Julio Iglesias by the pool at our hotel, sunning with several topless women.  Lindsey, just 12 years old at the time, asked “we don’t have to take our tops off to swim here, do we?”  Just another awkward moment in the life of a Dad with two daughters.

Passport Stamp:  Grand Cayman, 19 years old

Ah yes, the fateful vacation where the legend of “Rum Boy” first emerged.  Because I wasn’t yet 21 (and, ironically, you were never going to be the parent that served me an underage drink), you had to drink solo at our beach side lunch one afternoon.  You gave the house specialty a whirl…which amounted to Solo Cups filled with ¾ rum and a splash of juice.  After roughly 4 of those, we were introduced to the infamous “Rum Boy” – a character so mischievous that he taught his wife and daughters how to do a proper “ham and egger” (for those who’ve never heard this term before, this is how my Dad referred to a, shall we say, very “full-moon.”) There you were, buttcheeks pressed up against the glass of our condo’s floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the beach, laughing like a maniac (while your 3 girls dove for cover behind counters, couches, anything that would put us out of sight).  (For anyone thinking “I can’t believe she just shared that” – gimme a break – my Dad would be the first one to tell you this story).

Passport Stamp:  Bermuda, 21 years old

This was the trip where we rented a boat (picturing this amazing mini-yacht) and then showed up to find this tiny little motorboat.  We all grumpily climbed aboard, sure that this day wasn’t going to live up to our expectations.  But then it went right ahead and exceeded them.  Looking back, it’s one of my all-time favorite vacation moments – proof that all I’ve ever really needed in this life is a little sunshine and the company of my favorite people.  This was also the trip where we had my first “legal” drink together – I chose a Strawberry Daquiri to keep up the impression that I had no experience with the “hard stuff.” Good thinking, right?

 As I said goodbye to Mom, Lindsey and Wren in the Puerto Vallarta airport, I thought about how sad I was for our amazing week to be coming to an end.  And then I thought to myself “holy shit, you actually had a great time.”  Part of me wasn’t sure that was possible anymore.  In fact, I can remember back in August thinking to myself “I wonder if we’ll ever laugh again?”  But here we are, 7 months in to this experiment called the “new normal,” and finding moments where we’re actually, genuinely feeling happy.  (See below for one of my favorite meals and water views from our trip).

Even so, vacationing in the “new normal” will always feel really strange and somewhat dulled.  Without you, water views will always be a little less spectacular; Pacifico will always taste a little less awesome; and passport stamps will always be entirely bittersweet.  But I’ll always be thankful for the pages of stamps I received alongside you and the memories that came with them.  

I miss you and love you to the moon and back,

Elizabeth

[postcardstodad]

A Triumphant Return

This past weekend, I made my way back to a place that was always ours….the Oyster Bar at Shaw’s.  A place that housed some of my favorite conversations and bookended some of our best moments – it was a must-do whenever you visited me here.  And for the last 2.5 years, I’ve avoided it like the plague.  I told you it was a place I’d only return to when you could go with me.  

And to say it breaks my heart that we never had the chance – well, that wouldn’t even begin to do what I’m feeling justice.  I’d give just about anything right this minute for one more table for two.  One more round of beers.  One more order of crab legs that you’ll inevitably have to crack open for me.

At first I felt like going back there would be breaking my promise to you.  But then Mom pointed out that you’d be furious to know I was actively avoiding a place that meant so much to us.  As usual, Mom was right.  (Because I know she’s one of my 3 loyal readers, Hi, Mom -- don’t let this admission of mine go to your head). 

If I’m being honest, a big part of why I’ve avoided this particular place is the intense pain I feel every time I go somewhere you used to love and think how off-kilter it now feels without you.  Yep, it’s all the same, just as we left it – same lobster tank right at the front, same bar perfect for “bellying up to,” same paper thin menus from which you’d order the entire left-side.  And yet it also feels entirely foreign. 

But the other side of this coin is that going back to a place that reminds me of you, well, it reminds me of you.  And, frankly, I’ll take any opportunity I have for that.  

We started the meal with a quick Bloody Mary toast – it required no words at all – just a look across the table, a head nod and a smile.  Under normal circumstances, I would have actually made a proper toast – but I think everyone knew I was just trying my best to hold it together at that point.  Up next, oysters!  I know you’re having a hard time believing that I FINALLY gave in and tried one – and, believe me, as I slurped it down, I was wishing I had only done this a few years sooner.  I can’t believe I’m saying this but they were actually pretty good.  Of course, I cloaked mine in cocktail sauce and horseradish but baby steps, buddy.  Baby steps. Then I finished up with some French Fried shrimp.  I couldn’t bring myself to order the crab legs – some things will just always be ours.

I left feeling full and empty at the same time.  But I’m glad I went back if for no other reason than I know you’d be proud.  And I know that one day at a time, one landmark at a time, the places that make me think of you will start to feel more like a happy memory instead of a sad reminder.  

I miss you and love you to the moon and back,

Elizabeth

[postcardstodad]

On your behalf...

While I miss you on a daily (often hourly) basis, there will always be moments when I feel your absence even more strongly.  Moments where the hole in our universe becomes even more pronounced.  Moments that don’t even feel possible happening without you.  And this weekend was no exception.  On Saturday, you were awarded the Alumni Medallion from William & Mary – an honor which I know you would have been thrilled to accept.  And we were equally thrilled to accept it on your behalf.  

“On your behalf.”  One of those expressions that when written or spoken feels like a vicious kick to the gut.  I could take this opportunity to wallow in the fact that this is now our life – but instead, I’ll look at it with a little Russ Brown perspective and find the positives in doing things on your behalf this weekend…

On your behalf, I looked on as your wife gave the speech to end all speeches.  She channeled your Russ Brown grace, wit and eloquence as she took to the stage for her acceptance of the Medallion.  Honestly, I have never been prouder.  And I know you were looking down on her, feeling exactly the same way.  She tried to pull the whole “public speaking was Russ’ domain” bit but, between you and me, I’m not buying it.  She seemed like a natural.  

On your behalf, I hugged your friends tightly.  They were all there – The Montgomerys, the Agees, Tom, Larry, Herb, Drew, Dick, Don – like us, they knew how much this honor would have meant to you and so they wouldn’t have missed it for the world.  After the ceremony, we spent the afternoon drinking and sharing some of our favorite Russ stories – some of which I’d never heard and others which I’ll never tire of hearing.  I think in this life, you get as good as you give – and since you gave nothing but love to this group of people, it’s only natural that it would come back in spades this weekend.

On your behalf, I raised a glass.  I know for you, this would have been a weekend of true celebration…..so we all tried our hardest to do just that.  I’d be lying if I said there weren’t any moments that got the better of us.  But I hope you’d be proud that this was a weekend that over-indexed on happiness and under-indexed on sadness.  

On your behalf, I reminisced.  Looking at pictures of you from over the years, I’m always struck by how much you really lived.  You may have only had 62 years to work with but you sure packed a ton into them. Nothing could remove the sting of you not being here – but it sure helps to know you lived a life that had no chance of ending with regrets.

I know I told you this often, right up until the very end, but I truly couldn’t be prouder to be your daughter.  Your accomplishments were amazing but they were nothing in comparison to the man you were. The kind of man who made the world a better place.  The kind of man who prided himself on helping others.  The kind of man who brought people together.  In fact, even after you’re gone, this legacy continues. You’d be happy to know that all your friends from different parts of your life are becoming friends in their own right – they’re calling each other just to check in; they’re getting together for dinner when they’re passing through town; and, of course, they’re scheduling many rounds of golf.  Even after you’re gone, you’re making the world a cooler and smaller place.

I so desperately wish that life hadn’t taken the turn that it did and you had been here this weekend to accept this honor instead of us.  But you take the cards you were dealt and play the best hand you can. So, instead of feeling sad, I’ll do my best to live a full, fun and inspired life on your behalf.  

I miss you and love you to the moon and back,

Elizabeth

[postcardstodad]

A Dad, his Daughter and 'Da Bears...

The NFL championship playoffs are today so, naturally, I thought of our epic Dad/daughter date back in 2007.  Somehow, using your Russ Brown charm, you managed to score us amazing tickets to see the Bears play the Saints.  You flew in that Saturday morning and we spent the rest of the day eagerly anticipating the game.  That night, we excitedly laid out layer-upon-layer-upon layer of clothes, like little kids counting down toward a trip to Disney World.

The next morning, we woke up early – ate a quick breakfast and then grabbed a cab to Soldier Field.  We got there hours before kickoff so that we could watch warm-ups and, as you put it, “take in the full championship experience.”  It was insanely cold but that didn’t stop us from grabbing some ice-cold beers – what other use for mittens is there, really?  We ate hot dogs, drank more beer, had some hot chocolate and then, just when we thought the day couldn’t get any better – the Bears won and were headed to the Super Bowl.  I still remember dancing in the stands to Will Smith’s “Welcome to Miami” while confetti rained down everywhere. 

The day had been perfection so far – and we just couldn’t stand to see it end.  So we ran down the hill toward Lakeshore Drive, through the snow, laughing like maniacs.  We caught a cab and directed it to Shaw’s Oyster Bar.  Once there, we shed some of our layers and grabbed the perfect two-top table.  We proceeded to order the left-side of the menu (very little exaggeration here) and watched the AFC championship game on TV.  It’s amazing that, even now, 8 years later, I remember nearly every detail of that day.   Perfection is hard to forget. 

Memories like these are a double-edged sword, though. On one hand, they make me so, so happy to think back on.  And on the other hand, they make me insanely angry. 

*I know you don’t love when I “talk like a sailor” so at this point, I’ll just advise you to avert your eyes, Dad.

Thinking back on such an amazing day and all that I had, it forces me to think about all that I’ve lost, too.  All that was taken from me.  It makes me want to scream “FUCK YOU, UNIVERSE” and, even louder, “FUCK YOU, LEUKEMIA.”  Who were you to decide our time together was over?  Who were you to put an end to something so amazing?

But anger is a useless emotion in this instance.  Sure, it feels good to let it out from time to time.  But it’s not going to change a damn thing (except maybe my blood pressure).  I guess at the end of the day, I can be happy that we even had moments like this one – moments so good they’re worth making a memory out of.  And you don’t necessarily know it at the time but those are the moments that you’ll need to get by one day.  One day, those moments will be what you have left.  So I guess I’m here to say thanks for giving me so many good ones to draw from, Dad.

I miss you and love you to the moon and back, 

Elizabeth

[postcardstodad]

Happy Birthday, Dad.

Over the last few weeks, I've thought a lot about your upcoming birthday.  I knew it was going to be a tough day -- I mean, I can put on a brave face most of the time but there will always be certain milestones, certain moments and certain days that knock the wind right out of me.  And, as expected, today has been really tough.  

You should know, I did not intend to spend today alone, wallowing at home.  I'd actually planned to make my first trip back to our favorite place, Shaw's, and eat my very first oyster in your honor.  But, as is the case most of the time, the universe had other plans in mind.  After being rocked by one of the worst sinus infections I've ever had, I spent the day on the couch, drinking Gatorade and watching the Girls marathon on HBO.

But, as it turns out, this was probably the right place to spend your birthday.  Because it gave me time to be with just you.  I actually went back and reread the book I made for you during your 100 day transplant process, a thought or message for every, single day of your fight.  And Day 100 struck me:

Day 100!

On Day 100, it seems very appropriate to acknowledge how far we've come.  The morning of May 24th, 2012 was the first time in my life I'd ever experienced real, genuine fear -- the kind that takes you to your knees and leaves you unsure you can ever get back up again.  For a few weeks after that, fear was my dominant emotion.  But then we turned a corner, and suddenly, overwhelming gratitude was all I could feel.  

Gratitude that a "Plan B" even existed.  Gratitude that your donor could be kept "in the family."  Gratitude that you were willing to fight every step of the way.  Gratitude that you have someone as incredible as Mom to stand by your side.  And, now, gratitude that you're ultimately going to come out on the other side of all this victorious.  Gratitude is the first thing I feel in the morning and the last thing I feel climbing into bed at night....it's a feeling I'll have for the rest of my life.  

Day 100 has been circled on my calendar for months and, in a way, I can't believe it's actually here.  Thank you for allowing me to accompany you on this journey...it's one that has changed me and made me into someone who will always find the gratitude in this life -- every second, every minute, every day I get to spend with you deserves a huge helping of gratitude in return.  I love you so much!

Sure, I see now the cruel irony in some of what I wrote that day.  But so much of it still applies.  I still feel so much gratitude -- and, today, on your birthday, I'm overflowing with gratitude for you and the life you led.  You were someone who found the good in every situation and every person - you displayed an eternal optimism and overflowing gratefulness right up until the very end.  And that seems like the best gift I can give you today -- promising to live on with the same gusto and gratitude that you did.  It won't always be easy but, for you, I'd do anything.  Happy Birthday, Dad.

I miss you and love you to the moon and back.

Elizabeth

[postcardstodad]

A Year In Review

I think it’s safe to say that 2014 has been the toughest year our family has ever experienced.  I mean, let’s be honest, 2012 and 2013 were no walks in the park either.  But 2014 really takes the cake when it comes to spanning the full spectrum of human emotion. It’s been one that’s tested us as a family in every conceivable way.  It’s been full of more ups and downs than I ever thought possible.  And much like I’ve felt at the end of every marathon I’ve run, I’m crossing this year’s finish line thinking “holy sh*t, I actually made it.” 

JANUARY:  coming on the heels of one of the worst holidays in memory, we kicked off the New Year with a two-week stay in the hospital.  You had been miserably sick over Christmas – I remember coming in to find you in your bedroom, seated on the bed fully dressed, trying to psych yourself up to join us for Christmas dinner.  I think it was at this point it became abundantly clear; leukemia doesn’t take time off for the holidays.  But like the champ that you are, you came back with a vengeance, more determined than ever.

FEBRUARY:  In a single month, we learned that, against all the odds, you were once again in remission AND that our family would be gaining a brand new member in about 9 months – Lindsey & Wade were having a baby!  I can still remember standing with you outside of Ela’s restaurant overlooking the Shelter Cove Marina --  through a tear-filled hug, we said – “it’s the circle of life.” 

MARCH:   It was during this month that we were given a brief respite from constant worry – it seemed like everything was falling in to place and we were tracking toward a second bone marrow transplant where we would, once and for all, beat this disease into submission. 

APRIL:  We learned that our opponent had reared its ugly head once again bringing with it a devastating relapse.  It was at this point that the transplant team in Atlanta told us you were no longer a candidate for a transplant and that they were at a loss for how to move forward.  At this point, most people would have thrown their hands up in defeat, screaming “WTF, universe?” But you never have been and never will be “most people.” So this was also the month when we pulled every string available to us and met Dr. Guillermo Garcia-Manera at MD Anderson – a man so optimistic it was as though he was designed to be our doctor.  April was a month that both dashed our hopes and then served them up again higher than ever before. 

MAY – JULY:  we watched you endure a terrifying rollercoaster ride over the next few months – one where you’d be kicking ass and taking names and then immediately get taken down by some rogue infection.  Between all the different medications you were on (each with their own special side effect) and the fact that you had absolutely no immune system to speak of, you were subject to a new problem every week (and I so desperately wish that was an exaggeration).  But even in the last birthday card you wrote me, while you were feeling at your absolute worst, you told me you were going to beat this.  Your optimism was unwavering – and so, with you as our guide, we continued along this rocky path believing with every fiber in our collective being that we would, in fact, beat this thing.

And then came August – a month so cruel I’m not sure it will ever feel the same.  True to form, you navigated even the most horribly crushing news with grace, composure and bravery.  You remained you throughout every single second of your fight and, for that, I truly could not be prouder.  The world is a much more interesting place with you in it – that can’t ever be denied.  But even the greatest champions know when it’s time to stop fighting and just be.  So that’s what we did as a family.  For the last few days of a 27-month fight, we allowed ourselves to just be.  Be together.  Be at peace.  Be happy for what we had right there in those precious moments.  Don’t let the ease with which I’m writing these words fool you – nothing about saying goodbye to you was easy.  It breaks my heart into a million pieces just to think about it – but, even so, it’s not something I ever want to forget.  Being able to hold your hand and kiss your forehead and help usher you out of a life extremely well-lived – that’s a memory I never want to lose sight of – even if doing so might mean a little less heartache.

  September – October were a bit of a blur.  We set out to find a “new normal” and, turns out, that’s a lot easier said than done.  Sometimes, for just a second, I’ll think to myself “why’d we have to love each other so much?”  “Why’d you have to be so god-damn awesome?”  And then I snap out of it, realizing how insane I sound.  The truth is, I wouldn’t sacrifice one tiny sliver of what we had – even if it meant that I could spare myself a little bit of pain right now.  Over the last several months, I’ve had a LOT of things said to me – but one in particular really sunk in.  Someone said to me “the amount of loss we feel is proportionate to the gift we were given.”  Having you in our lives was a tremendous gift – so it makes sense that the loss we’re feeling is colossal.  The best we can hope for right now is that, most days, we’re able to keep our balance and avoid being sucked into the big, black hole you left behind in our universe.  Thankfully, life served up an adorable distraction for us on October 16th -- our newest family member, Wren Elizabeth Harrell, finally arrived.  She is the most precious thing I have ever laid eyes on and I couldn’t love her more.  And I promise, she will know everything there is to know about you (PG-stories only for now).

November – December 2014 – what a strange time of year – one where you’re not quite sure if you should try to honor traditions (painful as they may be) or fast-forward right through them.  One where I’ve heard more times than I can count “he’s here with you in spirit.”  Well, call me greedy, but I don’t want you here in spirit – I want you here, period, full stop.  I want to be able to wrap my arms around you and hear your booming laugh and be sent into hysterics with your Rated R version of The Night Before Christmas.  But this was the hand we were dealt so what can you do? It would have been extremely easy to focus on what was missing this holiday season – but, instead, I’m taking a page from you and focusing on what we’ve still got.  For starters, we’ve got your incredible legacy that’s coming to life in all sorts of ways.  It was recently announced that you’ll be receiving the Alumni Medallion from William & Mary in February – and we’ll all be there to proudly accept it on your behalf -- a symbol of how much you’ve done to support your alma mater over the years.  We’ve also finalized a name for your foundation – For the Win:  The Russ Brown Foundation to End Myelogenous Leukemia.  Has a pretty awesome ring to it, right?  This is our chance to honor you in the best way we know how – continuing the fight against this terrible disease with the same heart and soul that you did.

This has been a year full of paradoxes. It’s a year that has both taken life from us and given life to us.  It’s a year that’s forced us to feel our absolute weakest and, yet somehow, our absolute strongest, too.  A year that has knocked us down and then picked us back up again.  This is a year that has changed me – not necessarily for better and not for worse either – but I’m coming out of 2014 a different person than I went in.  I’ve learned there’s truly no point in worrying (which, as you know, I’m a real pro at) – because the one thing that knocks your feet out from under you will be the one thing you never saw coming.  I’ve learned that death isn’t the end of a relationship – it’s just the start of a very different one.  And I’ve learned that I’m capable of enduring so much more than I ever thought possible.  I thought this year would be the one to break me – and you know what?  It didn’t. 

I can’t say I’m sorry to say goodbye to 2014.  So, instead, I’ll just say – 2015, let’s see what you’ve got.

I miss you and love you to the moon and back,

Elizabeth