I have become the sort of person that washes their face.

This should probably not be something worthy of bloggy brag, but here we are.

I have never been the sort of person who washes their face. Well, not outside the shower anyways.

Despite every 90s Neutrogena commercial and a general knowledge that it is indeed, best practice to wash one’s face before bed, it has just never been for me. I don’t like the way it splashes on the counter. Not getting every single tiny molecule of soap off is infuriating. I hate that the water rolls down my wrist and soaks my clothes.

I would love to say that it was the $16 bar of soap I got in Asheville from a local soap maker, or the little wrist scrunchie things that absorb the water that made the difference, but I’m preeeetty sure it is the anti-depressants.

I haven’t been writing because I’ve been avoiding. All of it. The trauma of P’s last 6 months, the fact that I’m feeling better a good chunk of the time, that when I feel OK I feel guilty for feeling OK, that I’m not crying enough, or maybe too much sometimes. (For the record, a lot of things are easier when you don’t think about them or talk about them or write about them.)

But! I finally scheduled a new appointment with my therapist, and I am writing so maybe I’m not avoiding so much.

Sometime in July, I called my PA for some additional chemical help because I absolutely and completely lost it because I could not figure out a way to solve a problem.

It was a very solvable problem.

Conor was over the Y camp, and begged me not to go anymore.

“But I have to work!” I thought. “But I already paid for it!” my brain screamed. “But I will feel guilty if you play fortnite all day but I don’t have the bandwidth to be mother and father and sibling and camp counselor!” I bemoaned internally.

And I cried and cried, and slammed my wrists on the counter, and knelt on the floor and texted my PA and it was maybe the smartest thing I’ve done in all of this.

Solving problems is MY JAM. I am very good at it. I mean, look at all the things I’ve figured out! Plus! I’ve got people everywhere that are READY to help. Friends and neighbors and family and this whole camp thing was reducing me to a snot-covered puddle on the kitchen floor.

The medicine has helped a lot. I can still feel my feelings, but I am more in control of them. It feels much more me. I can focus when I need to and stand back and look at a situation with more clarity. In the case of camp, it was simple. I needed to ask for help. So when my wonderful mother-in-law offered to step in and help out, and my friend Courtney decided to invite Conor over multiple times this summer, and when I gave myself grace to let him live his life and play some more video games, it was all totally lovely and fine.

No puddles. No purple bruises on my wrist. No more hard conversations with a protective and loving 10-year-old about how I was “just really struggling today.”

And now I also wash my face. I mostly keep the kitchen clean, and change the sheets. The laundry doesn’t pile up. I go for walks and go out with my friends. I don’t beat myself up when I overreact, and frankly, I rarely overreact anymore.

If Conor doesn’t turn off the TV or put up his dishes, I can calmly ask again or do it myself without huffing around. If the dog runs away because she slips off her leash, I can rationally walk outside and get help from the neighbors.

I think maybe I’ve needed some medication for a long time. I didn’t like it when I tried it a few years ago, but now I take it every night without fail.

Because, I have somehow also becomes a person who remembers to take a daily medication. (*googles, “does lexapro help adhd…”)

I had lunch with some friends the other day, and they reminded me that I needed to sometimes write about the good things. So. Meds are good.

Also good:

• Conor has a class full of friends.
• Going to Mexico and New York this Fall and planning trips to Italy and Ireland in 2024.
• Trading in the Explorer and selling the Subaru to purchase a lovely Volvo. (I like to think I am one of the very few people blasting Against Me! and Hot Water Music in a Volvo)
• Baseball games, and soccer games, and concerts, and much cooler weather.
• Work that it is fulfilling and colleagues that bring me joy.
• Supportive and lovely family and friends

So. Wash your face. Take your meds. Ask for help. Write about the good things.

Two weeks ago, I strapped on my ridiculous ankle walking cast, hoisted my bags over my shoulders and hobbled my way into the RDU airport to fly to New York for a few days. Every year I’ve been at NCNG, I have attended the United Philanthropy Forum conference.

Yes, it’s as nerdy as it sounds. And it’s very meta. It’s the association for grantmaking associations. And it’s terrific. I get to be surrounded by people who understand what I do for a living and we absolutely geek out.

Even after I fell, I was pretty sure that I’d figure out a way to make it to New York. I’d get to see Erin, go see a broadway show, catch up with the friends I only get to see once a year, and attend my first United Philanthropy Forum board meeting, since I joined the board officially during the conference.

And honestly, the boot didn’t slow me down.

But strangely, the grief didn’t either.

New York is a place I’ve only ever been to with Preston once. He went there without me for work several times, but it doesn’t hold a lot of common memories for me. Erin and I have our favorite places – Cafe Habana, Rice to Riches, the MMs store (that’s my favorite – not hers) – but I don’t have strong memories of Preston there.

And this conference is my professional happy place. I know the people and the context, and some of them have been friends for a decade. To be selected as a board member is a great professional honor, and I’m delighted to serve the organization that has meant so much to me. My extroverted self gets to flit around hugging necks and having deep conversations and making new friends and sharing ideas.

And I didn’t cry once.

And I didn’t feel guilty about not crying once. Which honestly, is a pretty impressive accomplishment.

My brain got a little break. After the show the previous Sunday, and the injury, and trying to figure out Conor’s distaste for summer camp, I was exhausted and very emotionally drained. For someone who doesn’t particularly like being “in their feels,” I was pretty much living there for a long time.

So, New York was a gift. In its chaos and lights and noise and heat, it was as calm as my brain has felt in ages.

I’m not ready to go so far as to say I’ve turned some kind of corner. I don’t think it works quite like that. I know it will probably come in waves for a really long time.

We went to the beach last week for Conor’s surf camp. Every day at lunch, I’d wobble on out to the beach and go in the water for a few minutes. One of the days was so calm, the waves were barely breaking. The last evening we were there, they were pounding up on the shore so hard that Conor couldn’t get out past them.

In New York (and to some extent, the beach), the waves were gentle. They were there, but I could just bob up and down and let them incorporate in to my day in a way that didn’t beat me up too badly. The lead-up to the trip was more like being out in the middle of a storm, or caught in a rip tide. I probably spent more than a little time under the water and got an awful lot of stand stuck in an awful lot of places.

After my grief-cation, I’m figuring out when to get in the water and when to stay on the beach. When to let the waves wash over me, and when to thank them for their service and just watch and listen to them crash. I’m learning how to let grief serve me instead of knock me off my feet.

And that’s something, I think.

On Monday, I dropped Conor off for swim lessons, popped back to the house, put the trash cans out on the street, leashed up the dog, and tripped off the ever-so-slightly wonky stairs out the door into the garage.

My ankle twisted. It popped. Loudly. Unnervingly.

Down I went, cursing the whole way.

It’s a very vulnerable feeling, to be sitting (writhing?) on the garage floor, in a lot of pain and trying not to freak out. I called my dad, but he was at the River.

By some miracle, I had just texted with my cousin Aly who had planned to walk past my house on a mission for muffins at Groovy Duck Bakery. I called and she was close! Huzzah!

Here she came, running up my street to my rescue. She got the dog inside, grabbed me a beverage, and of we schlepped to Raleigh ortho.

Thankfully, Erin and Jim are still here, so they snagged Conor from the pool and took him to purchase the promised soccer cleats.

Dad had called Vicki, so she met us there. We made jokes with the receptionist. They were VERY unnerved when I said something to the effect of, “Actually, I find this all very funny. My husband’s funeral was yesterday.”

But look, it was a WILD 24 hours. We’d just spent the previous afternoon surrounded by 160 of our dearest friends and family. More than at our wedding! I somehow managed to give the little speech I’d planned to give and made it through playing one of P’s favorite songs.

Conor had fun with his friends and learning how to play blackjack at The Pour House.

Our friends came over for pizza and whiskey and magic.

It was wonderful and awful and fun and hard and I am really tired of all of these feelings existing all at the same time.

So I’m legit sorry that I was freaking out the people in the urgent care. But man. It’s just a lot.

I’ve felt pretty lonely during all of this, but sitting incapacitated on the floor of my garage, trying to figure out what the heck I would do if my ankle was actually broken (spoiler alert, it’s just a bad sprain) was an unpleasant experience.

My support system is awesome! They were right there and had it all handled.

But it still was just one more place that highlighted his absence. It just keeps going like that. Every day there is something else. Some days it’s big, like the fall. Or like today when I really could have used a “good cop, bad cop” tag-team parenting approach. And some days it’s tiny like having too much extra spaghetti.

Celebrating Preston’s life on Sunday was beautiful. Friends and family performed and drank and hugged and laughed and cried.

And the way my friends and family showed up on Monday to haul my butt to the urgent care was also beautiful.

The steps in my garage, however, are absolutely not beautiful and will be getting replaced POST HASTE.

The day Conor was born, it was very, very cold.

My water broke in the middle of the night, and we headed just down the street to Rex Hospital. The air was crisp and still and bitterly cold, but the stars were bright and it was eerily silent.

By the time we were checked in – and I was jovially bouncing away on a yoga ball – it had started to ice and snow outside.

Of course, no birth story has much jovial bouncing, and it was all down hill from there. Induction, three failed epidurals, 22 hours of labor and 2 hours of pushing, all to end in a rather dramatic c-section.

I didn’t get to meet Conor for about 3 hours. He had fluids in his lungs, (as c-section babies often do) and I was recovering from some heavy bleeding.

By the time he and Preston finally met me in the elevator to go to our room, I was beyond exhausted. But he was precious.

Because I was a total zombie that first day, Preston sprung into action. Suctioning fluid when Conor started to cough, making sure my needs were communicated clearly to the nurses, learning how to swaddle like a pro, and hooking up the breast pump.

He was an absolutely devoted dad from our very first hour as a family of three.

We stayed in the hospital for 4 nights and then brought Conor home to our little townhouse in Hamstead Crossing. I couldn’t go up the stairs yet, and Conor wasn’t sleeping, so I camped out on our big couch downstairs for the first few days.

We were so tired. C had his days and nights mixed up, so he was awake a lot. I was sore from the surgery and from breastfeeding.

Preston was a tax accountant then, so he had to go back to work almost immediately. It was hell. He would wake up at 5 AM, drive to Durham, work until about 7, come home to have dinner with us, and turn the computer on to work from home. I was still sleeping on the couch, and my world was very small.

Sometime in those early days, my parents came over to relieve us. They held Conor (he cried and cried) and we went upstairs to take a nap. We hadn’t slept in the same bed in weeks and I missed being next to him so much.

We crawled into our bed together and I tucked in under his arm and was instantly asleep.

That was always my favorite spot – on his left shoulder with my knee just over his leg. The smell of his deodorant and musk of the day. My hand on his chest just below his heart. His occasional involuntary twitches causing his arm to squeeze me closer to him.

That’s where I go now in my head when I get overwhelmed or scared or feel alone. It’s a safe space to calm my brain. It helps me remember how good it was for so very long. When we were scared and tired and overwhelmed but at peace.

I’ve been going there in my mind a lot lately, as we prepare to celebrate his life tomorrow. We’ve been so busy, and I’m often scared and tired and overwhelmed. Of course, a memory isn’t as powerful as being tucked beside your person.

But it is strong enough to remind me of how lucky we were to have our time together as a little family of three.

This summer, we’re being blessed by a whole ton of experiences.

Camps, and trips, and lovely friends who let us borrow beach and mountain houses. Time at the River. Work travel and friends and family in town.

Summer is flying by.

I spend slightly less time sitting in grief when I’m busy. It’s almost like I have to schedule time to let it out. My therapist taught me a new thing about tears – and I like it so I’m not going to fact check it. (You are welcome to, just don’t tell me if it’s wrong.) She said that there are 2 kinds of tear ducts – the kind that keeps your eyes moist or that engage when you cut onions or have allergies.

Then you have the emotional kind that actually stimulate hormones to relieve stress and help you feel more calm.

This makes me feel much better about crying. A purpose! A reminder that, not only will I eventually stop crying, but that I might even feel a bit of relief afterwards! Good job, tears!

I still hate crying, I just hate it a little less.

Beyond the scheduled moments – usually in the evening after C has gone to bed and often outside – I’m also finding my grief to be a bit of a sneaky minx. It pops up at inconvenient moments like swim meets. Or on the bus home from a work trip. Public crying is a whole new kind of awful, but man, it’s pretty hard to contain sometimes.

Conor is doing OK. He’s still tender – not as much about his dad explicitly, but it’s like he’s walking around with an exposed nerve. You can just barely nudge it and it triggers a much bigger than expected reaction, or actually he shuts down. He doesn’t process big feelings outwardly – he just sort of turns out the light.

He’s still finding refuge in video games and in his hyper-fixation songs. (This week it is “What’s Left of the Flag” and “If I Ever Leave This World Alive” and “Lean On Sheena” and y’all THOSE LYRICS) I know I should be more careful to limit things like screen time and junk food, but honestly, I just want to zone out on tiktok sometimes and eat cookies, so it feels a little crappy not to afford him the same courtesy.

I bought a little urn for Preston yesterday. He wants most of his remains in the Pungo River, but I’m finding it incredibly difficult to not have his ashes close, so even if I do eventually spread them, I’ll keep some saved in this little pottery dish. I got myself a matching coffee cup. (I’m not sure the ladies at the little store in Boone found my jokes about us “enjoying morning coffee together” as entertaining as I did, but I was glad to be with my friend Vicki who totally got it.)

Preston always really liked pottery. He had a rather extensive collection of mugs and often chose them as his souvenirs when we traveled. He got a beautiful one in Ireland, and not long after we brought it home, I accidentally knocked over a beer bottle (I am often oblivious to the space around me) and it chipped the top.

Of course, he was fine with it. But I was DEVASTATED. I cried and cried and cried. (I was about 7 months pregnant with Conor, so we were experiencing a whole new Sarah on the emotional front.)

And Preston, knowing me very well, wrapped me up, walked me to the car, and took my round little self to Target, thus beginning our, “PUT IT IN THE CART” tradition of better feelings through capitalism.

We walked all around the store, and if I said, “oooh!” at any point… “Put it in the cart.”

Furry brown blanket? “Put it in the cart.”

Absolutely duplicative water bottle? “Would it make you happy? Put it in the cart.”

Snacks. “In they go.”

As it turns out, there couldn’t possibly be enough cute throw pillows to make the hurt stop, but I do find myself genuinely cheered by the thought of him walking through a store with me saying, “I mean, if it will make you smile, you should do it.”

And even though we have to do it sad, we’ll do the things and hunt the dopamine and the oxytocin with trips and visits and shopping screens and movies and sometime crying.

P.S. Here’s your reminder to RSVP to P’s “memorial service” that will not be at all a “service” but will be fun. We’ve rented out the Pour House on July 9th (P’s Bday) from 12-4, but I suspect most folks will be dropping in and out. Some friends are going to share some tunes and we might tell a story or two.

I’m absolutely pulling out my violin because I want to give everyone those nice emotional tear duct hormones. Be warned.

And honestly, I haven’t felt like doing much of anything at all.

When Preston was sick, I used up every single second. When he was asleep or on treatment, I would sew like crazy. I’d stay up too late to finish up a project and run in to show it off to P.

Monday nights, I always went to tap class. Such a joyful medium!

Sitting in bed in his last months, I almost always had a crochet project handy.

When he died, I found solace in getting my thoughts out here. Therapy as much as a hobby and way to stay connected.

I’ve always been a hobby collector. Basically, I decide I want to learn how to do something, so I just do it. Stained glass. Quilting. Embroidery. Amigarumi. Bouzouki. I’m always busy.

But now, I just don’t have the brain space for it. It’s not that I want to do a different hobby, it’s that I don’t want to do any hobby.

I tried to make a dress last week. Let’s just say it isn’t my finest work and will be just fine when I cut it all up and turn it into cotton rags.

I’m finding that in my grief, things just aren’t quite as fun as they used to be.

And what felt like lots of extra space and the release of relief immediately following Preston’s death has been replaced with big sad. It has filled up the space in my brain and in my heart and in my day. It fills in all of the gaps that aren’t taken up by work and parenting and eating and chores.

It really takes up the space at night.

My therapist sent me this image of a grief journey:

In the early days, (I guess I’m still in the “early days”, but time is a construct, and it’s all relative) I was bouncing around a lot. If you’ve been reading all along, you probably felt that.

But right now, I’m stuck in the sads and it irritates me. I am not comfortable in the sads. I find crying to be incredibly irritating. I want to feel more like myself and less like sad myself. She is annoying. She makes lots of mistakes. She whines about being lonely. She does not have patience. She orders hundreds of dollars worth of pictures to hang up in her house. She doesn’t even like romance novels.

The nerve.

I got a new tattoo on Friday. The last day Preston was in hospice, one of my favorite artists posted a “wannado” with a compass rose and some flowers. Just the week before, Preston had told me how much he loved the stained glass compass rose I once made him. (He said in particular that he was very impressed that it was so precise because – AND I QUOTE – “We all know that’s not your mother’s strong suit.”)

So anyway, the design was just right.

I paid my deposit that night, set the appointment for June 9, and P had passed 12 hours later.

I had my appointment and it didn’t start out great. I thought it was supposed to have color, but she didn’t and changing your plan on the artist last minute is like next-level bad form.

“I’d really just like a little color in the compass rose…” I said very meekly, heart racing.

Of course, she was a total professional, and was super lovely when I told her the deal. (Also, I sit like a fucking badass because WHAT IS PAIN so we finished in plenty of time) The tattoo is perfect.

All that to say, when it comes to grief, it’s not as simple as picking a direction and heading there. The compass isn’t always pointing North. It is not a constant. It’s a lot more like those super cheap ones you get at souvenir shops at the aquarium.

But you sort of have to follow it anyways. Let it take you on a journey. And when you’re stuck in the swamps of sadness, you’ve just got to hope that you’ll go the way of Atreyu instead of Artax. That you’ll keep right on heading to the Great Valley. That you’ll help Thomas J find his glasses.

OH MY GOD YOU GUYS THE 90s MESSED US UP SO BAD.

Ok, long, rambling story short.

Grief blows. I’m mostly OK. I know that someday, things will be fun again, but they’re not right now. It is what it is.

For a long time, Preston’s cancer was a lot like a chronic disease. Most days were good, and he needed some accommodations, but generally, he was able to function pretty well on a daily basis.

Well, a lot of that changed around the holidays, and we spent a lot of time investigating gadgets and trying to make him more comfortable and our home more accessible.

I suspect you or someone you love may at some point require this knowledge, and I’m not one to gatekeep. So here are a few of my favorite things…

Timers on bottles: THIS IS THE MOST GENIUS INVENTION. You might even need this now. It resets the clock to the last time you opened the bottle. Not sure if you remembered to take your pill? IT’S ON THE LID. It has timers you can set and stuff like that, but we just used it to know when he took his last pain pill. GAME CHANGER.

And cute socks with grippers: Everyone with mobility issues needs to have some good, solid slipper socks. These held up really well and were comfy without too much compression.

Neck wraps to warm up: These were great for supporting his head and neck pain. Whatever is in them also smells nice when you heat them up.

And small remote holders: Our bed had a remote, and with the tremors in his hands, it was constantly getting dropped. With these incredibly handy inventions, we could pop them on the wheely cart next to the bed and attach all of the remotes so they couldn’t be dropped or lost.

Walkers for tall folks and for small door frames: Surprisingly difficult to find a walker that went through our small bathroom door. This one folds up enough to scootch in with a  simple tug on the seat.

These are the products that sure changed the game.

Big comfy eye mask with flat Bluetooth speakers: P had a hard time sleeping, but I needed to be in there to help with meds. So, with these, he could leave the light or TV on, but I wasn’t bothered. The imbedded speakers meant I could listen to my audiobooks or podcasts to fall asleep.

Ice wraps for headaches to keep in the freezer: This thing really helped with Preston’s headaches. You need to let them sit out a minute before putting them on – otherwise it hurts a bit.

 These things to make sure that you are drinking: These were a good alternative to sugary Gatorade or sparking water. It was also easy to keep next to be bed to jazz up some water and worked well when Miralax was mixed in.

These are a few of my favorite things!

(Also this is totally not sponsored, and Amazon is problematic, but MAN was I grateful for overnight delivery and a gazillion options of accessibility and comfort tools and a generous return policy.)

Hi, all – thanks for being here. We’ve been getting a lot of questions from folks about ways to show love and support for the two of us. As we’re figuring out what our new “weird normal” looks like, I finally have some ideas!

There is no dopamine like care packages. I know I’ve had a long-standing, “NO STUFF” policy for a long time but look, I’m capable of change. A couple of folks have dropped by little care packages or sent fun activities by mail, and honestly, it brightens our day. Some ideas:

For Conor: Crazy socks, Legos, vbucks, Prime hydration drink (this stuff is tough to find!) craft kits/art supplies – really anything Fortnite, guitar, or art related.

For Sarah: Whole bean coffee, stickers bright nail polish, funky fabric or yarn – anything that is colorful is going to do the trick right now. Oh, and also red wine.

Gift certificates we’ll for sure use: Tropical smoothie, Target, Doordash – and if you really want to provide Sarah with some dopamine, Marshalls or JoAnns or the Bernina quilt store that is wwaaaaayyyy too close to the house. For Conor it would still be Vbucks. (let the record show that I think spending real money on pretend clothes in a video game is ridiculous. And yet, he thinks it’s the GREATEST thing ever, and are you going to deny him right now? I sure can’t!)

If you need our address, email pscwillcox@gmail.com and we can get it to you. (If you still have Galax drive, it’s not that one.)

Also a thought, maybe set a reminder on your calendar to send something in a few weeks, or month, or later this year? Even if it’s just a note/email/card.

Others have asked about ways to honor Preston with a donation. We’d love that! We’d recommend:

Camp Kesem at Duke University – This is Conor’s beloved summer camp. They have them at many college campuses across the country, and the students raise the money, plan the camp, and staff it as counselors. It’s magic. It’s also free for kids to attend! (You can choose to designate the donation straight to Conor’s program at Duke on the donation page.)

The Holt Brothers Foundation – This is the foundation that supports KidsCan – a program at Rex that was one of the most helpful and important pieces of getting through this for both me and Conor. Bonus, the Holt Brothers are amazing, and Torry Holt was Preston’s favorite football player of all time. We got to meet him at a KidsCan event in December, and it was fantastic.

Thanks for the lunches, and gift cards, and contributions to our joy fund, and thoughtful notes, and care packages, and texts, and basically all of it. It does make a difference.

Also, if you haven’t gotten the memo, his memorial show will be at The Pour House in Downtown Raleigh from 12:30 – 4:00. Kids are welcome. We’ve invited some friends to play some tunes, and we’ll drink beer, and make merry and probably be a little sad, too.

All are welcome, but do RSVP here so we know what to expect: https://forms.gle/WtW8QgYzgA38GTNR6

During the days, we stay busy. School. Work. Guitar. Chores. On the weekends, visits with friends, Fortnite for Conor, TV for me. (The Diplomat and The Night Agent are both good one-season netflix options I finished this weekend.) We went to a hockey game and stayed until 1:30 AM. We make dinner and eat it on the couch while we watch Taskmaster.

But bedtime. Man. That’s when it hits me.

We’ve always been a sentimental bunch with our “do this!” I love you sign and our “Love you mores” and our “You’re my favorites” and that’s just how we are.

For years, when I put Conor to bed, he repeats some version of, “Love you! Do this! Do this for Dad! Give Dad a hug for me! Goodnight!” and that’s just the way of things.

But now it’s just us. So it’s just, “Love you! Do this!” and I add, “Goodnight, Dad, we miss you!” and somehow manage to click off the light and close the door before the tears fall.

I’ve written before how these spaces he occupied show up in the darndest ways. You should see the pile of pillows I have on the side of his bed – an impenetrable wall I can curl up next to.

I find myself talking to him, too. Someone said to me, “You know, they say energy is neither created nor destroyed,” and that makes me feel like he’s just floating around us somehow. In the breeze. The call of the hawks in our neighborhood. The buffalo nickel I found on the beach. The songs that come on when I hit shuffle on Spotify.

I greet him with a “Hi sweetheart” and just keep swimming. Hoping that he’s hearing our goodnight messages and that he agrees that right now Conor should be allowed to play more video games than normal.

When the grief hits – when an elephant sits on my chest and my nose starts to tingle way in the back and my face crinkles up to release the tears – it stops me in my tracks. And I sit down where I am and sob until I can’t any more.

And then, I wipe off my face -am once again reminded that, even when it feels like you won’t ever stop crying, you do – and then I find a way to be busy again. Write. Bathe. Fold the laundry.

I look at one of the dozens of family pictures we have on the wall and whisper, “I miss you, sweetheart” and keep fucking going.

It’s been 2 weeks. It’s still super weird. Conor and I are figuring it out. Slowly. And we’re going to a hockey game tonight, which should be big fun.

What falls in the category of “not big fun” are conversations that I would suggest – with the benefit of some hindsight – that you have with your loved ones. Some I think you should do today. Others might not apply to you for a long time, which is great. These are not conversations you want to have with your spouse or parent or friend, but you need to have them.

P and I had done most of these, and to say that it has helped in this time of total pandemonium, would be an understatement.

And, you won’t always know it’s coming like we did, so just do it now. Yes. It’s going to be awkward and it might be painful. But do it right now.

Obviously, my perspective on this is as a spouse, but the same kinds of things apply for other relationships. Take what you will from this and apply it as is relevant for you and your situation.

1. Make a will. Some credit unions have low-cost options. There are templates online. You need one.
2. Today, this very minute, download something like 1password. It’s worth the money. Share every single password you can think of that is connected to something you use. Not just bank accounts. Xbox. Hulu. Instagram. Apple ID. Credit card logins.
3. Make a list of your recurring charges and what cards they come from – coffee deliveries, streaming/internet – anything. Go through your credit card statements and share a document with your important people.
4. Get life insurance policies for everyone in your household.
5. Talk about end-of-life wishes. This is icky. If you’re making decisions for your loved one, you need to know exactly what their wishes are. It will make it easier for you, I promise. This applies to things like cremation v. burial and also healthcare wishes like ventilators. Important: if you don’t think you’re capable of voicing the choices of your loved one, it’s OK to let them designate someone else as power of attorney. I had a lot of comfort knowing exactly what Preston wanted – there was no ambiguity. I’m glad we had those conversations.
6. If you can, consider a financial planner. At the very least, know where every single retirement account is. (I know you have that one 401k from that job from 15 years ago that you probably should pay closer attention to but don’t… have you updated the beneficiary or is it still your brother or something? Go figure it out.)
7. Write down, video, or document where your “special things” came from. I didn’t get the chance to do this with my mother, but that meant that Preston and I took the time to walk through possessions that were particularly special to him and record videos about their provenance.
8. Back up your phones and know how to get to pictures, videos and texts.
9. Know who your service people are – plumbers, AC/heat, yard, etc.

If you are in a position where someone’s death is imminent and you have time to prepare, #1 – I’m really sorry. It’s very hard and I am happy to talk to you about it if it would be helpful and #2 it’s OK if you haven’t done all of the stuff above. You’ll figure it out.

Prioritize passwords like phone lock screens and emails – you can reset most things if you have access to their email accounts. Make sure you can get to their credit card statements to figure out what is recurring.

Do some “memory-making” things like having them walk through their jewelry or other treasures. Record videos of them telling the stories. If their voice has changed significantly or their skin has started to change, then just writing it down is absolutely OK.

Here are some other ideas:

1. Have your loved one make a playlist for you.
2. Make sure you know their “top 5” – books, movies, albums, songs, video games. Or whatever you’d like to do. (Those were the ones our friend Kevin brought up, and it was a wonderful conversation and I’m so glad we had it.)
3. Thumb prints in sculpey clay
4. Make a memory box with stickers or drawings.
5. Hand print art
6. For kids, have your loved one wrap up in a specific blanket and have them pass that along. Conor’s support group leader suggested this, and the blanket she got for Preston is now Conor’s favorite. I also embroidered a note written by P in the corner. You don’t have to be super crafty – a note in a frame works, too.
7. Have them read a book out loud. (I recommend everyone do this – I once recorded P reading Harry Potter to Conor over the baby monitor. I’m glad I did that way back before I knew anything.)

Finally:

Take the vacation.

Don’t sweat the small stuff.

Yes, memories are better than “things,” but sometimes having a special “thing” makes it feel like they’re closer. It’s OK.

Take more videos – especially of the person that’s always taking the videos.

And look, I’m serious about the password thing. Do it right now.