I remember many years ago, standing in front of the mirror and inspecting my hair. Was that a bald spot? Was I losing my hair? As a woman, our hair is an accessory that we care deeply about. I couldn’t fathom a world where I would lose my hair. Surely it would be the end of the world.

But it wasn’t.

After my first chemo sessions, I scheduled a call with my hair dresser and asked her to shave my head. There are so few things you can control when you’re in cancer, and how I lost my hair was within my control. I didn’t want to be standing in the shower washing my hair and finding clumps between my finger. So I shaved my hair. I was doing fine through the process until I looked over at my daughter and another hair dresser, and saw they were crying, and we all lost it at that point.

We cried. And in that moment, I knew I wasn’t alone in this battle.

I’ve been taking photos since my last chemo to remind myself where I was vs. where I am now. My last chemo was October 4, 2023.

Yesterday I spoke at my grandmother’s celebration of life. I wanted to share.

For some of us here, we had the absolute pleasure of calling Millie mom, aunt, and in my case, grandma. This was a privilege that life bestowed upon us.

As a child, my brother Michael and I spent a lot of time on the farm just down the road from here. Grandma had this knack of knowing where to get refrigerator boxes, which would be waiting for us when our family car pulled up to deliver us for summer vacation. Michael and I would spend hours cutting out windows, doors, and sunroofs in those boxes. Mine would always have curtains drawn with my crayons and markers. At night, we would pull those boxes to the west side of the house, grab our mattresses, and shove them into the boxes to fall asleep under the stars.

In the back of her closet, there was a box full of fancy dresses, high heels, and sparkling jewelry—not for her, but for when I visited. Those were my dress-up clothes, and many adventures unfolded in them. I became a teacher, a princess, a queen, or a damsel in distress. At the top of the stairs was a bookshelf filled with books she had carefully collected for us. Hours were spent poring over Richard Scarry stories, traveling to faraway lands, and living through the pages of The Black Swan.

The farm was “home” for Michael and me—the constant in our lives. That quarter-mile driveway felt like a magical portal to a world so different from the one we knew. There wasn’t a single spot on the farm we couldn’t explore or that was off-limits. We spent endless hours in the sandbox with our army men, creating handmade rivers, running around with dirty feet. There were dressers full of winter clothes to wear when we played in the snowdrifts, and strawberry fields offering as many sweet berries as my greedy little hands could pick and eat.

Breakfast was always oatmeal with raisins, which I lovingly called “bugs,” and pancakes. And Grandma’s fried chicken with her glorious, homemade gravy—it was a masterpiece, something most people will never have the pleasure of tasting.

She was the kind of grandma who took the time to make sugar cookie dough, roll it out, and hand over the cookie cutters so we could make Christmas cookies together. The kind of woman who welcomed coworkers, students, or anyone she met who didn’t have a place to spend the holiday, inviting them to join us at the dinner table. She knew how to make every holiday feel special, every summer an adventure, and every visit to the farm a treasure trove of memories.

She was the kind of person who made you feel like a long-lost friend instead of a stranger. The first time my step-mom, Linda, met Millie, Linda walked into the kitchen on the farm, and Grandma looked up at her and said, “Hi Linda,” just like they had known each other forever. It was one of her many gifts—the ability to make everyone feel instantly welcome, instantly seen, and instantly valued. Whether you were a family member, a friend, or someone she was meeting for the first time, Grandma had a way of making you feel like you belonged, like you were part of something bigger, part of her world.

As a child, I didn’t understand what she did for her job, I just knew she was important enough to have a secretary, and for most people, if you wanted to see Grandma, you had to have an appointment. For Michael and me, we didn’t need an appointment because we held the grandchild card. We would always greet her secretary, raid the candy jar, and walk back to Grandma’s office. Those visits were more than just about raiding the candy jar; they were about feeling the warmth of her presence, the comfort of knowing that no matter how busy she was, she always had time for us.

It wasn’t until later in life that I found out how fierce Grandma was. Grandma was shattering glass ceilings way before women knew there was a ceiling they needed to shatter. She was the first woman to ever hold her position at the University. She worked in an environment where her male-counterparts thought that the only reason she should be in the room was to take notes, not to lead the conversation. She ran her department with professionalism and perfection, and without a college degree. She went toe-to-toe with those men and did so with grace and tenacity.

Grandma was the person I wanted to be. Strong, independent, kind, and caring. I think we all wanted to be a little like Grandma.

I think we all wanted to make her proud. There were moments in our lives when we fell short, made mistakes, and didn’t reach our full potential. But through it all, she remained the one person we could always count on for unconditional love. Her love wasn’t just something we received—it became the foundation of who we are. For my brother and me, she was more than just a grandmother; she was our cornerstone, guiding us like a mother would. She believed in us, even when we struggled to believe in ourselves, and that belief helped us navigate our darkest times. She was incredibly proud of all of us—my dad, my uncles Freddy and Tim, my siblings Michael and Christopher, and her great-grandchildren. She never missed a chance to brag about us, always amazed at the lives we had built.

She had a saying: “The day you stop learning is the day you die.” She lived by that motto, and in turn, each one of us kids did as well. Millie became a handwriting analyzer for the University. She became a Master Gardener and knew everything you could possibly know about flowers and plants. Not only was she an incredible cook in her kitchen, she knew how to cook one of the best meals you’ve ever had over a campfire, and she was an avid reader. Her curiosity and passion for learning was endless.

I read something recently that said, “Crying often comes when hope is gone.” But as I stand here reflecting on Grandma Millie’s life, I realize that hope isn’t gone. It’s alive in each of us who were fortunate enough to know her, learn from her, and be loved by her. She instilled in us a resilience and a belief that no matter what challenges we face, we have the strength to overcome them, just as she did so many times in her life.

Her legacy is not one of sadness but of strength, love, and endless learning. Grandma Millie showed us that life is a journey filled with opportunities to grow, to explore, and to become better versions of ourselves. She taught us that no matter how tough the world might be, there’s always room for kindness, for creativity, and for a little bit of adventure, whether it’s through a refrigerator box under the stars or the quiet strength of breaking barriers in the workplace.

So while today we may shed tears for the loss of Grandma Millie, let those tears be a testament to the profound impact she had on our lives. And let us remember that her legacy is one of hope, resilience, and love. She taught us that life is about constant learning, growth, and discovery, and it’s our responsibility to carry on that journey with the same passion and curiosity that she did.

As we move forward, let us honor her memory by living our lives with the same strength, kindness, and determination that she embodied every day. Let us continue to learn, to grow, and to strive for the greatness she saw in each of us. And most importantly, let us continue to love one another fiercely, just as she loved us.

In doing so, we keep her spirit alive, not just in our memories, but in the very way we live our lives. And in that way, Grandma Millie will never truly be gone, for she will live on in the hearts and actions of all who were blessed to know her.

I love processes. Like hard core love them. They rule the world. They make things easier. And when you don’t keep that thought in mind, you fall into the catch 22 trap. By the time you need the process, it is because you are so busy and need to delegate it to someone else, and taking the time to create the process means you have to pause, think, type, and prioritize creating that process over everything else that you need to do.

I love processes. I hate processes. I need processes. My team needs processes. So here I go……….. creating the next process.

We have a lovely little porch on the back of our townhouse, just enough room for a couple of tables. In 2022, we added chairs, lights, and footstools and had the perfect setup to sit and relax. We loved coming out in the early morning to listen to the birds.

2023 brought the cancer diagnosis, surgeries, and chemo, and the back porch became just a place where we didn’t spend much time.

Now it is 2024, and we replaced the old chairs with new ones, with a chaise lounge for me to stretch out on. I’m sitting out here tonight watching the thunderstorm roll in, listening to Taylor Swift and remembering that this is what you live for. We’ll be hanging the wind chimes tomorrow. They make a deep tone that connects directly to your soul.

Death is weird. You expect it to be more, emotional. And then you sit within its reverberation and wonder if maybe you’re dead inside.

My grandmother passed away today. The message arrived in a text message from my brother, only because I was in a meeting, and he was at work.

Grandma passed. Sorry.

I sit here with those words now and can’t put my arms around them. They leave me perplexed and confused.

I expected more. Tears. Weeping. Collapsing to the floor with grief. Something. Anything. This isn’t what I thought death would feel like. As if just another thing to mark off the daily task list. This is how I felt while dealing with cancer, so maybe this is just how I process it all, I don’t know.

I didn’t see her much while I went through chemo. Her memory reset every 15 minutes, and I couldn’t bring myself to break her heart (and my own) every 15 minutes when she would realize I was bald. I couldn’t bring myself to see her cry, because she would. I couldn’t bring myself to have me cry, because I would. I never wanted sadness to touch her. So I stayed away. Once my hair started growing back to a length where I could say “Oh yes, I’m trying out a shorter new hair style” we went to see her. She didn’t recognize me. She recognized the kids, Eric. But not me. And that was ok.

The last time I saw her when she was still conscious was heart breaking. She was so lost and scared. Not understanding why she was in pain, in a hospital and not at home, where was her family, why did they abandon her.

I mourn more over those moments than I do her death. Right now at least. Maybe it will hit me tomorrow, the day after, next week. I don’t know.

For today, there is no more confusion. No sadness. No feeling of abandonment.