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Apophenia

My next big project is to form a rock band called The Why and release a double-length concept album titled “Apophenia”.

—Twitter post, 15 October 2014

Kat and Carolyn were in New York City this past weekend for a brief trip, and when they got back Kat was in a bad way.  I picked them up from the airport and Kat’s symptoms were such that I drove her straight to the Cleveland Clinic ER on suspicion of a cardiac event.  (It wasn’t.)  With the help of friends, I got the kids off to their scheduled activities and stayed with Kat.  By late in the afternoon, we knew she’d be staying overnight, and we decided that I should go to be with the kids.

I gathered up the backpacks and dirty clothes from their weekend trip, slung them over my shoulder, and then stood at Kat’s bedside, holding her hand.  Not speaking, just standing.  Eventually she gave me a small smile and said, “Go on.”

I twitched toward the door, and failed to actually move.  Kept standing.  Kept holding.

“I’ll be all right, Eric.  It’s fine.  Go.”

“I know it’s stupid, but I’m afraid to.  The two times I walked away from Rebecca in a hospital, it didn’t end well.”


We spent our last few hours of innocent ignorance in an emergency room in New Jersey, getting Rebecca rehydrated and hoping to figure out what was going on.  She was so lethargic and tired, and we feared spinal meningitis.  As the day wore on, she seemed stable, neither better nor worse, but one of us had to go get the other kids.  We decided to have Kat stay, since she was the medical professional.  I gave Rebecca a hug and kiss, told her I loved her so much and to feel better soon, and walked out the door.  Not long after that, she had her first seizure.

Just a few months later, after the surgeries and protons and initial chemotherapy and our return back home to Cleveland, Rebecca finally came down with a fever.  It was of course at a time that we could only take her to the ER for evaluation, to make sure she wasn’t neutropenic.  It was evening, and we were hungry, so I went over to the food court while the last few tests were run before they discharged us.  While I was gone, the staff gave Rebecca a routine dose of ceftriaxone, and she immediately had a strong anaphylactic reaction.  We had never known she was allergic to it.  Antihistamines were quickly administered, and she had to spend the night at the hospital in case the reaction flared up again.  It didn’t.


Twice I walked away from a loved one lying in a hospital bed.  Twice something went terribly, horribly wrong.

And of course there’s nothing to that but coincidence, but we evolved to spot patterns.  It was a survival skill of the savannah, to see how disparate and apparently unconnected events tied together into a cohesive story.

Now we drag it around with us like a growth that we’ve long since ceased to notice.  We see stories written in the stars and meaning imposed on our mundanity.  The most common question we ask is “Why?”, and that can lead us to wonderful discoveries and insight, but it seems just as often to mislead us into an egotistic reordering of the world.  Our obsessive quest for causes can all too easily cause us to invest in illusions.  That pattern-recognizer that coils through the hindbrain can and does turn on us.

Think of all the conspiracy theories you’ve ever heard or believed.  Think of all the times you’ve heard of something terrible happening to someone and asked yourself why it happened.  Think of all the people who get blamed for what has happened to or even near them, regardless of whether we know all they did or didn’t do.

Think of all the Greek or Roman or any other culture’s myths, the stories where some person draws the notice of the gods, who then proceed to punish them for hubris or mischievously grant their prayer according to its letter but opposite its spirit.  That impulse is no less strong in us.  So many people ask themselves what they could have done differently to avoid their current situation, or what they’ve done to deserve what’s happened to them.

And even our language enforces this view, subtly and persistently.  In the last paragraph, I could have written “So many people ask themselves what they could have done differently to avoid their fate”, but “fate” is a concept born of stories.  It carries with it meanings of destiny, of supernatural forces directing a specific outcome.  I even started to type the word, and then replaced it with “current situation”, which is a far more accurate rendition of what I want to say, but not nearly so poetic.

Not nearly so story-like.

We optimize our language’s patterns to favor the concepts that feel the best to us.  All languages do.  And in doing so, we not only reflect the patterns we see, but reinforce them.  Powerfully.  We reorder the way we see the world, we create patterns of filtering, and when we talk to each other we transmit those patterns to each other, self-reinforcing.

I could say the patterns are living, memetic symbiotes, and thus fall victim to the overactive pattern-recognizer in my own hindbrain.

So we ask ourselves what we could have done to save Rebecca.  I can and do believe as strongly as I believe anything that there was never any hope for Rebecca.  Her genetic makeup, some accident of her conception or fetal development or whatever, meant that she was always going to die of cancer as a child.  We could have tried anything from megadoses of chemotherapy to experimental surgery to the latest woo-woo herbal treatments, and she still would have died.  All we could affect was how long that took, and what her short life would be like as it came to an end.  And we had no way to know which choices struck the best balance of lifespan and life quality.

I like to think that we did well, but for all I know some other set of choices would have given her another six or twelve months with the same quality of life she had.  I don’t know, and I don’t torture myself over that; we did the best we possibly could.  Perhaps that’s me imposing an absent pattern on disparate points of data again, but she did have great quality of life, up until the last week or so, and we fought ourselves to safeguard that for her.  It will have to be enough.

And yet, I still ask myself sometimes if we somehow could have saved her.  If there was a moment when the doctors said X, that we were supposed to do Y instead.  And there’s that pattern-recognizer, affecting our language again: “we were supposed to”.  As if her life was meant to be a long and perfect story, and we were too blind and stupid to see it and fulfill it.  As if we failed to understand what we were supposed to do.

That same impulse is only a short step away from taking responsibility for the cancer itself.  Wondering if we could have avoided the cancer entirely if we’d fed her a different diet, or lived in a different city with different air, or taken a different approach in infant medications, or to vaccination.  Or if we’d been less satisfied with our lives.  Maybe she’d be all right if we hadn’t had the impulse to thank whatever gods or demons might lurk beyond the horizon for our lives that seemed so right, and say no more than that; maybe she suffered for our being humbly grateful for what we had and not thinking that we needed to beg for that state to continue.  Punished for the hubris of believing that our lives were good and in no need of improvement.

“What did I do to deserve this?” it’s so easy to ask.  “What did she do to deserve this?  Why her?  Why us?”

“Why”.  “Deserve”.

Patterns of instinct, encoded in language, enforced in thought, imposed on the world.

Capricious deities, lurking in the clouds.  Heroes and monsters, written in the stars.


Twice I walked away from a loved one lying in a hospital bed.  Twice something went terribly, horribly wrong in my absence.

So I stood there holding Kat’s hand, wanting to stay with her even if it meant sleeping in a hospital chair all night, because deep in my hindbrain, the pattern-recognizer was screaming that something would go wrong, just like those other times.  That she would die if I left.

I squeezed her hand and gave her a kiss, told her I loved her and to feel better, and walked out the door.

She’s fine.

A New Chapter

Last Wednesday, I stood on the stage at An Event Apart for the first time in almost fifteen months, in front of an audience for the first time in just over a year, and delivered the most important talk of my life.  It wasn’t about CSS, or coding, or even standards.  It was about design and empathy and user experience and my own personal experience and what it taught me.  It was a talk about designing for users who are in the midst of crisis, no matter what kind of content you have, no matter whether you think your users will ever be in crisis when they come to your site.  It was the opening of a new chapter in my career.

To say this is a radical departure is an understatement.  But after the turns my life has taken, it was almost impossible that this would have been anything less.

I don’t know if the audience sensed my anxiety and fear in the moments before I spoke.  I wasn’t afraid of speaking in front of the audience, nor of their reaction to my points.  I was afraid of making my points badly, so that the message was lost in hesitation and stumbling.  I was afraid of fumbling and failing, not because of how I would look in public, but because it would mean doing a disservice to the message I was trying to convey.  And I was a little bit afraid of letting down the team at AEA, who have stood by me and done so much for me.

In the past, I haven’t really rehearsed my talks.  They were all technical, covering territory I knew very well.  The cliché is “Don’t prepare a talk, prepare yourself.”  In other words, know your subject so well that you can just talk about it for an hour.  That’s how I approached all my presentations.  I had high points to hit, slides (or demos) in a certain order, but no actual script.  I didn’t need one.  CSS was so familiar to me, I could mostly improvise what I said.

But this new talk is entirely about territory new to me.  In some cases, it involves things that are new to everyone—ideas I’ve come up with, and techniques I’ve devised, that I’ve never seen before, and nobody I’ve talked to has seen before.  It took no particular act of genius to do this; I just tried to simulate certain frames of mind with software.  The only insight there was to realize that it should be tried at all.

Beyond the topic area, everything about this talk is unusual for me.  I wrote it out as if composing an article, and read the text aloud several times to figure out what had to change.  Once the text was set, I rehearsed more than a dozen times, which partly explains the complete blogging silence of the past month.  I memorized the opening and closing sections of the talk verbatim, going over them in my head before bed, sitting on the plane to Florida, pacing in my hotel room.  On Sunday afternoon before the show opened, I went into the ballroom and essentially gave the talk to myself and the techs putting the lighting and AV together, getting reacquainted with being on stage and throwing my thoughts into the world.

And then, Wednesday morning, after Jeffrey introduced me, I stood center stage, looked out into the audience that held hundreds of my colleagues as well as my sister and parents, paused for a moment… and started talking.

Several people told me they were holding their breath in that pause, wondering if I’d be able to start.  That wasn’t my concern.  My concern was that I would lock up a few minutes in—that I’d stumble, lose my place, and go tharn.  Once I got through the opening and the first screenshots came up, I knew that danger was past.  Whatever else, I’d be able to carry it to the end.  And I did.

As I said before, that talk marked the opening of a new chapter for me.  I’m not abandoning CSS by any stretch, and in fact I’m moving forward on that front as well, but a goodly portion of my energies will be devoted to this new topic.  I think it’s not just important, but vital, and very much overlooked.  I have research to do, ideas to test and further develop, and a lot of thinking ahead of me.  I have this talk to give at An Event Apart throughout 2015.  There will probably be articles, and possibly a book.  Perhaps even more.  I don’t know yet.

What I know is that I’m on a new path now, one I wish I hadn’t come to by this route, but one that I’m determined to follow.  I hope to take what I’ve suffered and forge it into positive, lasting change—not just for me, but for the profession and medium I still love after all these years.

Gravity Wars Redux

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been writing a remake of/homage to a game I last played somewhere around 1990: Gravity Wars.  I gave this personal project a few hours here and there each day, or more usually each evening, slowly resurrecting a little piece of my past and putting my own spin on it.  You can check it out for yourself, if you like: Gravity Wars Redux.

There are a few things I changed from the version I played all those years ago, besides the change of colors.  First of all, instead of taking turns, in my version the ships fire simultaneously, meaning a no-survivors tie is possible.  Second, the shot preview paths weren’t part of the original game.  Third, the “Gravimetric display” wasn’t a thing in the original game either.  That and the shot previews are leftovers from my development testing that I decided to keep around, either because I thought they added something to the game or because I just liked them too much to dump.

In fact, most of the code in there is accreted leftovers from the experimentation and development process.  Looking at it now, I can see all the things I should have done.  It just got to a point, as with most coding projects, where I could add another scoop or two of spaghetti to the existing mound and ship it, or I could start over and try to make the lasagna properly this time.  I decided to ship it.

I have to admit the point of all this wasn’t actually to recreate Gravity Wars, as much as I like the game and am glad to have a working copy of it.  It was instead to teach myself about the canvas API, and also to try to get a handle on some JS features that have never quite made sense to me.  I think I did okay on the both fronts, in my own idiosyncratic way.

At this point in a JS-related post, I usually throw in a disclaimer about being a JS newb whose code should never be inspected by anybody.  That’s probably still true, but I know I’ve advanced quite a bit from where I was, which pleases me.  I can see that not just in that the code I’m publishing today, which is convoluted and clumsy but still better than what I’ve written in the past.  I can also tell I’ve gotten better simply because I can see better approaches, as a result of what I learned along the way.

This may be where I end the project, or I may go back and take another crack at making lasagna.  We’ll see.  The carrot for me in doing that is it would let me add some other fun features and useful improvements pretty cheaply, not to mention I could fix some things that aren’t quite what they should be (like the placement of planets and ships, which should be a little less random).  The stick is of course having to rewrite code I already wrote.  I mean, lasagna is nice and all, but I like spaghetti too.

Anyway, I enjoyed writing it and learning as I coded, so if slinging missiles around planetary limbs sounds like your idea of a good time, please enjoy.


I’m indebted to Sohrab Ismail-Beigi, whose 1989 PASCAL source code I studied and in some cases directly ported; and to pascal-source.ru, for making that code available for download.  My thanks to both.

Presence and the Gift

There are two aspects of my parenting that have really helped me cope with the illness and death of my daughter.  One was there long before she became ill, was in place before we had any kids; and the other I learned in the months since the first tumor emerged.

What I’ve had all along is a strong determination to appreciate each stage of our kids’ lives for themselves.  I’ve heard or read any number of parents saying they wish the next stage of development would hurry up, or that a past stage had lasted longer.  You know: “Oh, I can’t wait for Johnny to start talking, all this grunting and wailing is so difficult!”  Then, months later: “I really miss the quiet days, before Johnny talked non-stop all day every day!”

Sure, the current stage is difficult.  They’re all difficult.  They’re also amazing, unique to each child, and they’ll never happen again.

So I went into parenthood determined not to push them forward, and equally not to hold them back.  Of course we teach and encourage them.  We taught them sign language so they could talk before they spoke.  But we also didn’t push it, drilling them and punishing every mistake and rewarding every success.  It was the same with speech: we spoke and signed with them, and they picked up each at their pace.  The same with solid foods, and potty training, and learning to read and write.

Of course this isn’t a 100% deal.  I don’t always manage to maintain a Zen tranquility about every last thing.  I’m really ready for diapers to be done, for example; it’s been a decade now, and I’m pretty much over it.  But we’re not pushing it, and I don’t make a big deal out of it—or even a small deal.  This phase will be done when it’s done.

That focus on appreciating the kids for who they are every day has long made it easier for me to navigate the regular shoals of parenting.  And believe it or not, it’s made dealing with illness and death easier.  I didn’t fidget impatiently for the end of the treatments, or try to block out what was happening.  I didn’t spend my time looking over the horizon, dreaming of future days and missing what was happening in front of me.  I was focused on what was happening, good and bad.  Every day, as much as I could stand.

Given how little time we had, I am incredibly glad that I was present for it.  That I cherished everything good in it, and accepted everything bad.  I shudder to think how I’d be doing now if I hadn’t.

That was the first thing that helped.  The second thing, the one I learned in the past year, is to treat all my kids as if they might die in the next year.  That probably sounds like a prescription for massive spoilage and neuroses galore, but hear me out.

Try to imagine this: you learn that your child has a small but noticeable chance of dying a year from now.  Say, 5%, or something like that.  There’s nothing you can do to change that, it’s just how it is: a small chance they have a year left, and a much much larger chance they don’t.  How would that change how you treat them and interact with them?

For me, it created a new blend of short-term and long-term parenting.  I’ve always been a long-term parent, thinking ahead years or decades.  That sometimes led me to be stern or unyielding, and to not always express an appropriate amount of patience and care when it came time to discipline.

But when I realized Rebecca would likely be dead within a year, I realized I had to change how I acted toward her.  I had to soften how I disciplined.  By soften, I don’t mean letting her do whatever she wanted, or reducing the scope of discipline.  It meant working extra hard to meet outbursts of five-year-old rage with calm and measured words.  It meant being clear about the causes and reasons for punishment while working extra hard to be matter-of-fact and neutral about it.

These were things I’d always tried to do, but in the chaos and tumult of day-to-day life, I hadn’t always pushed myself.  Now, with a limited time frame, I had to make every day count.

And, once I realized that, I realized I had to do it for all three kids.  Because who knows what will happen?  We all have a limited time frame, easy though that can be to forget.  Carolyn might have died in an accident before Rebecca’s tumor came back.  How would I feel if that happened, and the last thing I had said to her was angry in words and tone?

I had been falling short with all of them.  Rebecca falling ill made me realize that, and showed me how to step up.  And so I have.

As I said, that doesn’t mean their discipline has lessened.  Because, to go back to the 5% chance of death in a year scenario, that’s a 95% chance that they’ll grow up to be adults.  So you can’t let them run wild; if you do that and they grow up, you’ll just as surely have failed them, not to mention everyone who comes into contact with them.  The boundaries are still the same.  I just try my best to communicate them in a different way.

Even with the odds of death much higher than 5%, that’s how we treated Rebecca.  Partly it was because she might survive, and partly it was because she wasn’t an only child.  We had to treat her consistently with our other children for their sake, as well as for hers.  Even more for her siblings, perhaps, given the outcome.

But when I did put her in time out, or took away a privilege, I always did my utmost to do so quietly and with care, not in anger.  Not with a smile, which would have mocked her frustration; nor with raised voice, which would have escalated it.  Just calmly, implacably, maybe a little sadly.  I did my best every time, and not just with her.  With all three kids.  I continue to do it with our surviving children.

I don’t always succeed, but I always try.  And when I find myself losing control, a quick internal reminder of the stakes is usually sufficient to regain my course.  Usually.  I’m not perfect.  But I’ll keep trying.  That’s all anyone can do, is keep trying.

Indescribable

A thing they don’t tell you before your child dies, because nobody who knows this would go around proclaiming it unprompted (except, apparently, me) and nobody who doesn’t face this situation would ever think to ask and probably nobody who does face this situation has the meta-awareness to go asking after the truth that they will all too soon have to inhabit, is that the pain of it does not consume you like nuclear fire and leave you a hollow, broken, still-burning shell of ash.

Not continuously, anyway.

It does do that sometimes, much more often in the beginning after the end, but that begins after a while to subside and the moments of overwhelming anguish slowly grow farther and farther apart.

After a while, you don’t even hurt continuously, let alone feel what seems like an endless torment.  There are periods of waking time, seconds or minutes or maybe even an hour or two, where you don’t actively remember your child is gone forever, when you aren’t focused on that ungraspable fact.  The intervals grow slowly, over time.  Because humans can get used to pretty much anything.

The grief remains indescribable, but the nature of its indescribability changes.  At first, it is so vast and deep and overwhelming that trying to grasp it is like trying to understand the true size of a galaxy.  Those are the moments of fire and ash, when an unexpected, vivid memory or sharp regret brings you to a sudden, blinded stop.

You try not to have them while driving.

Between those moments, the grief is still there, but different.  It’s not there in strength every microsecond of every day; it comes and goes.  There are times you can put it aside for a while, to concentrate on a demanding task or play with your surviving children or watch a brainless movie.  When you become aware of the grief again, it’s surreal and confusing.  It’s like trying to understand the true shape and texture of a six-dimensional whale.  Even if you could, there’s no way to describe it in words so that someone else can understand.

In those moments of greater awareness, the surreal nature of the grief makes the entire world, your entire being, feel wrong.  It warps you and everything you perceive.  A previously energetic and focused person can become listless and disoriented, or a fidgety, easily-distracted person can become still and quiet.  Anger comes flaring out in strange directions, over stranger reasons.

Recognizing this is difficult, and counteracting it is doubly so.  Recovering from it is a long process, the end of which I have not even glimpsed.  I can imagine it in some detail, I know which general direction to go to get there, but I cannot yet see it.  It is either too far away, or too obscured by the warping effects of the grief.  I don’t know which.  It could well be both.

But this is why I seem to check out, from time to time.  I’m not actually going through an internal hell of pain and torment when I do, which is what I suspect other people suspect.  Instead, I’m trying to come to some understanding of the extradimensional horror that always hovers nearby, sometimes right in front of me and other times just out of sight, hoping that if I can somehow comprehend it in its entirety, it will finally go away and allow me to be happy that she lived instead of sad that she died.

Artisanal Bereavement Spam

On the last day of shiva, this past June, we got a letter in the mail.  Just by looking at the envelope, I could see that it was a note of condolence, and from a nearby address to boot—yet the name was entirely unfamiliar.  When I opened it, I discovered a handwritten note that started with a perfunctory condolence and then immediately turned to extended proselytizing.  Enclosed was a religious tract specifically about the afterlife.

From the actual text, it was clear the person who wrote it didn’t know us at all, didn’t know the first thing about us or what we had just gone through.  They had simply trawled that week’s obituaries to get our names and address, and proselytized by mail.

I wish I were making this up.  But no, someone really did decide that the occasion of our daughter’s death was the perfect time to thrust their religious recruitment efforts into our lives.  Artisanal bereavement spam, basically.

I tweeted about it, leaving out identifying information, but otherwise let it go.  An unfortunate one-off, I figured; someone with more fervor than sense, not to be taken as representative of the group as a whole.

Except it just happened again.  Different person, same religion, same basic approach.  This letter isn’t as glaringly obvious about the obituary trawling, no hollow claims of sympathy or condolence this round, but the handwritten emphasis on seeing dead loved ones again makes it pretty obvious that this is of a piece.

DSC05033

So, yes.  The Jehovah’s Witnesses apparently think it is a fine idea to vulturously circle the misery of others and then swoop in to deposit a load of tract on the dining room tables of grieving families.  And what’s more, to keep doing it.

I disagree.  I don’t even beg to differ, I simply disagree.  If there were an opt-out mechanism, I would most certainly make use of it.  In so doing, I would include a number of comments regarding their apparent need to hide their intent with misdirection and to prey on the extreme pain and emotional vulnerability of others.  Since no such mechanism appears to exist, this post will have to do.

Of course, just as I did the first time this happened, I handled the note, the tracts, and the envelope itself with every bit of the care and respect they deserved.

DSC05053

I Googled around a bit and only found two posts about this practice (“Are Jehovah Witness Members Trolling Obituaries for New Recruits?” (2009), “Letters from Jehovah’s Witnesses” (2013).  Well, here’s a third, this one backed up with visual evidence.

I’m posting this in case others experience the same thing and wonder if they caught a lone crazy.  I’m sorry, but no, they aren’t “lone”.  If you got one, you may well get more.  I very much wish it were otherwise.

Divergence

Being here, in the same vacation spot we were last year when Rebecca fell ill, wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be… until last Friday, August 15th, the first anniversary of her seizures and life flight to CHOP.

That night, the next day, and the days since were much more difficult for me, as we moved through the anniversaries of her first and second surgeries.  Today is the anniversary of the third, when they implanted the drainage tube that probably kept her functional and complete until the last few days of her life.

These days have been so difficult because I’ve been experiencing what I’ve come to refer to as “divergence stress”.  I feel as though last year’s August and this year’s are running in parallel, branching from this past Friday.  I am here, sitting in our rental, looking at the beach and the ocean waves, and feel as though another of me is up in Philadelphia, gaunt and teary-eyed in a dim intensive care ward and hoping against hope that our daughter will survive, while I sit in sunshine and luxury, wondering why I am not with my little girl who so desperately needs me right now, who I so desperately want to hold and talk with again.

Or worse, that another me isn’t up in Philadelphia, but Rebecca still is, lying unconscious and alone in the intensive care unit.  As though the loop has restarted, but I have stepped out of it, abandoning my baby to her cancer.

I know this isn’t the truth.  She is not there.  We are not there.  We are here, now, and she is not.

But someone else, right now, as you read this, is there.  Another family is assembling around a PICU bed, surrounding their child and hoping against hope and sick, choking fear that their beloved will survive.  Maybe they will.  Many do.

That family, and all the families still to come, need research to give their children a better chance to live.  Many of them will need a place to stay while their child endures weeks or months of surgeries and treatments, just as we did.

To that end, our friends Nancy Massey and Kimberly Blessing have launched a fundraiser with two aims.  The first is to support research into pediatric brain cancer.  The second is to sponsor a room at the Philadelphia Ronald McDonald House for a year.  The $10,000 fundraising goal will allow both.  Going beyond that goal will make it possible to support even more research.

It’s not much to make sure those other families have a welcoming place to stay and a better chance at continued life than we did.  If you can, please make a contribution.

One Year

Exactly one year ago, in the emergency department of Cape Regional Medical Center, Rebecca had the first of her seizures, and our nightmare began.

Now we are back in the same place for our annual family vacation.  The same resort, the same building, even the same floor, though not the same room.  We go to the beach, we swim in the pools, we play games on the boardwalk.  All the things Rebecca loved to do.  In fact, her first wish with Make-A-Wish was not to go to Disney World.  Her wish was that it be summer so she could come back to New Jersey and do all those things.  Disney was a distant runner-up, a sort of consolation prize for not being able to do what she really wanted to do.

Even as we organized for that Disney trip, Kat and I decided to bring the family to New Jersey for an early vacation, if Rebecca was well enough once June finally came.  And then to come again in August, unless Rebecca was still alive but too sick to make the journey.  Neither came to pass.

Instead, we’re here without her.  I had feared this would be too painful for us to bear, but it isn’t.  New memories are being made with our children, and if sometimes Kat and I are drawn up short by a specific memory, or a wish that Rebecca were here to enjoy the trip with us, or just having the instinct to count three heads before realizing that we only have to count two, it is usually a wistful sorrow rather than a sharp agony.  Usually.

Those newly-made memories, of jumping waves and digging holes in the sand and boardwalk ice cream and going to water parks, are the building blocks of healing.  Forming them in the place that Rebecca loved so much is, we hope, the mortar that will glue them together.  It helps that we love it here too, and that love is limned by the memory of her love.

It all still seems unreal.  Our lives were proceeding as lives do, and then, in the middle of our special family time away, we were suddenly confronted with the horror that our middle child, our five-year-old girl, had a tumor in the middle of her brain.

I remember all the shock and terror and anguish, but not like it was yesterday, because it wasn’t.  It was a year ago today.

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