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.

Today was a good day. Even though it started with Conor feeling crummy.

I let him stay home. He watched a lot of Futurama. And we ordered Tropical Smoothie. And he put away his laundry and finished his homework (he found a mistake in a math question) and read so he could play Fortnite.

And I let him play past the promised hour and then we made dinner (salads and our favorite smashed potatoes – it’s easy to cook for 2) and we ate and watched Taskmaster and I drank some wine a friend brought me.

(For the record, if you want to bring something to me, wine is a very good way to show your love. Reds especially.)

I eased back in to work today – emails and catch up, mostly – but what a fantastic distraction. It’s a privilege to genuinely like your work. And I’m so proud of my board for being supportive and to my team for just figuring it the heck out.

My board chair, a dear friend, went so far as to say, “We’ve got this. Let us do this for you.” And by george, they did.

I had therapy, too. I walked outside and got sunburned, but we talked and she let me vent and I felt better afterwards. Validated. Lifted.

And I finished mapping out Conor’s summer and signed him up for surf camp in Wilmington, so he can surf and I can sit on the beach and write.

Our friend sent us a Lego art project and we ordered Tropical Smoothie for lunch.

Today was the first day where we sort of found a rhythm that was just me and Conor. I didn’t make him go to school. We relaxed the rules. We ate on the couch.

He’s good company, that kid. And yes, he’s feeling much better.

Sun and support and potatoes and wine reminds me that – true to my promise to Preston – we’ll be OK.

I find myself in need of new sets of words.

This, dear reader, is new territory for me.

Talking with people is at the core of who I am. I got in trouble for talking in school constantly. I was a communications major. My job involves loads of chit chat.

Silence befuddles me.

But now, I find that my brain just can’t find the right words to make regular conversations.

I don’t have good ways to answer “How are you?” because I know full well most folks – though well-meaning – aren’t ready to hold the real answer.

“Oh! Well, it sucks a lot! Today was our wedding anniversary so between losing the cat in the attic, unnecessarily and obsessively reorganizing my fabric stash, and watching Ted Lasso, I cried and ate swiss cake rolls,” just isn’t polite, rain-into-someone-at-the-grocery-store kind of talk.

And if they don’t know about Preston’s death, I find myself wondering – to the point of absolutely not listening to a thing they are saying – if I should figure out some way to work it into the conversation.

“Oh! Your son got his height from your side of the family? Mine is taking after his dad. And well, he died a few days ago.”

And I’m not even sure I can answer the question of “How’s Conor?” because the truth of it is that I’m not totally sure. I think he’s OK? He isn’t weepy like I am, but he does get misty when we talk about Preston. We’ve done a good job keeping him busy and having lots of fun, and I think that helps a lot.

I think he, like me (most of the time) is still trying to figure out what this new life looks like. It’s simpler. Cooking and ordering for the two of us is straightforward. (that might be because I keep forgetting to feed myself, which I think I should probably work on fixing). I don’t have to time trips to school or to the store around who can be at the house to help out. We aren’t eating meals on the floor of the bedroom or talking about scans and scary stuff.

There are just these spaces. Spaces he used to fill. The third plate, the other towel, the extra load of laundry, the coffee cup. The mental load – medicines, doctor’s appointments, protein counts. The company, the advice, the conversations, the stories. The traditional anniversary sushi.

And in the same way I can’t quite figure out how to take up silence with carefully-chosen words, I can’t even begin to fill in all of the gaps he left behind. And I’m fairly certain I’d rather not try.

I think, perhaps, I’ll do what I often do when I have to talk in front of a group. I’ll work on my talking points, and rehearse them in front of an imaginary audience in the car.

(A side note: my absolute FAVORITE way to work through something is in the car and pretending to be interviewed by Terry Gross. She just asks me the best questions to get it all sorted out in my head.)

How are you?

We’re taking it one day at a time. But it’s hard, and we miss him.

What does your husband do?

He passed away a few weeks ago, but was Conor’s biggest fan.

How is Conor?

Kids are pretty resilient. We’ve got a great village and we’re trying to keep him busy.

Ok, I guess that wasn’t so hard. In the next episode, I’ll use this blog to work out exactly how to respond when someone says, “Oh, I’m so sorry” because “It’s OK” and “Thank you” feel real weird.

We settled on May because it is generally a beautiful time of year. And since we got engaged on July 31st the year before, it hit within coveted, “can’t get too complicated” window the bridal magazines talked about. It was after tax season but before summer vacations took over.

We had about $10,000 from my parents and a few extra dollars we saved up. Most of the money went to the tents in the front yard of Richard and Cathy’s house and in the spare lot with the cherry tree for the reception. Dad arranged for lanterns to be hung from the ceiling. We used the caterer that cooked the pigs for Wake Stone when dad worked there. We called upon the talents of friends and family to design invitations, play the music, take pictures, DJ, and direct the parking. My mom and aunts planted flowers in the flower beds and made cupcakes. My friends helped me put $100 worth of dried flowers into mason jars for centerpieces. We picked up cheap beer and wine from Total Wine.

We’d had a beautiful dinner at Pia’s the night before. It was a fitting choice because the day Preston proposed, I had desperately wanted to go to dinner there on our way to the River. I couldn’t have known that he was trying to beat the coming thunderstorm to propose on the shore that evening.

“We have food ready to cook. Let’s go ahead and get down there,” he had said, terribly reasonably.

Of course I pouted, and you would have, too, because Pia’s was really a lovely restaurant and it would have been tasty indeed.

I hadn’t even really seen it coming. As you know, I knew I would marry him almost immediately, but I hadn’t realized that he’d been saving every extra penny he had to snag my ring at the Raleigh institution, “Reliable Loan and Pawn” (yes, actually). When he did finally get down on one knee, storm approaching, perfect diamond solitaire in his hand, I just said, “yes yes yes yes yes yes” and hugged his neck. (He was 6’3″ and I was just 5′ – hugging his neck was a novelty in and of itself.)

Before the wedding, we bucked tradition and stayed together at Little Washington’s newest Hampton Inn. The staff had gotten our names confused and on the front sign had declared, “Congratulations Sharon and James!” The staff was thrilled to have met “the Irish Couple” so named because they had listened to the wedding CD we had burned for our guests and it contained both fiddle tunes and some Flogging Molly.

The next morning, I had to pick up all new makeup because some mysterious yellow stain had show un just before the rehearsal dinner. The lipgloss I got that morning was this pretty shimmery pink Cover Girl lip gloss that had been a weird cross-partnership with Crest so it tasted like mint and tingled when I put it on.

I got ready in the back room of what is now our River house. We moved it to its current location the year after the wedding. My uncle and aunt laid out refreshments. I put on my off-the-rack gown that the seamstress who did the alterations said didn’t fit me, but made me feel like a princess. My shoulders were sunburned – badly – from the day before. I still had some yellow splotches from the night before. I wore pink ballet flat crocs with the sixpence in my shoe that mom and her sisters had worn at their weddings. I had on the garter that I caught at my friend Carrie’s wedding. The locket was a gift from my beloved granddaddy Bill.

My bridesmaids chose their own dresses that “were mostly some shade of green” and Preston used a few of our extra dollars to buy ties for the groomsmen. I made bouquets out of buttons. He wore a gray suit and still had glasses then. And no beard. He looks so young in the photographs (but obviously I look exactly the same.)

I had a playlist on an ipod connected to some speakers to play music before the ceremony, and when I peaked out to turn it on, folks were watching the end of the pier because bull-nosed rays were breaking the surface of the otherwise completely still water.

Because it was absolutely still. Not one stitch of breeze.

And it was 85 degrees.

Thank god our wedding was casual.

Every May 15th since then has been a perfectly reasonable temperature. 75 degrees. 65 even one year. Looks like tomorrow will be in the mid-70s with a nice breeze.

But not in 2010.

By the time the ceremony was over, everyone had sweat clean through their clothes. The kids had already either completely disrobed or had changed into shorts. Everyone ditched any jackets. My hair was immediately pinned back in what now looks like a purposeful updo, but then was just, “OH MY GOD GET THIS HAIR OFF MY NECK.”

Fans were found. Extension cords were dropped. Beer was consumed.

We danced, and ate barbeque (spinach lasagna for the vegetarians) and had the toasts. My family made up new words to, “Say a Little Prayer for You” and everyone asked it I was pregnant when I chose to eat banana pudding rather than use wine for the toasts. (In truth, I would just much rather have Ms. Layton’s banana pudding than any alcoholic beverage available to me, and when I drink, I flush, and I was hot enough in that taffeta.)

I flitted from table to table and the bottom of my dress was (still is actually) covered in the fine gray dust of Woodstock on the Pungo.

The sun set and it stayed hot.

The DJ played all sorts of songs on the “do not play” list. Our friend Michael Casey started wowing everyone with his magic tricks.

At some point, Preston and I snuck off to dance to the Michael Buble version of “The Way You Look Tonight” (it was not on the approved list of songs, but I am not mad about it) and looked up at the tiny fingernail moon that is – and always will be – my very favorite.

On this eve of what would have been our 13th anniversary, I feel both desperately sad and profoundly grateful for our love. I think what most people remember about our wedding is, well, of course that it was very very hot, but also that it was very very us.

It was simple and beautiful and we were surrounded by our most beloved friends and family. We nearly forgot to sign the paperwork, but it wouldn’t have mattered. We were as devoted to each other as two people could be – pawn shop rings and government paperwork and vows and veils didn’t make it more or less permanent.

And I don’t feel any less married now than I did then.

But what I wouldn’t give for another dance where no one is watching.

The last two days have been a doozy.

Erin is still here (thank goodness) serving as wise counsel, decision making partner, extra muscle, and baseball and hockey watching buddy to both me and C. She’s magic and we’re grateful she’s here.

Yesterday (how was it only yesterday?!) we made a list. “THINGS TO DO” I titled it in my fancy e-notebook. Most of it was easy stuff:

Freeze credit cards, make sure I can log in to stuff, change hulu/netflix/hbo/youtube/spotify/appleTV/HBO streaming to my credit card. Unsubscribe to at least 2 of those. Hang up new canvas picture of the “do this” we made last week. Email the lawyer. Email the financial planner. Take the old medicines to the CVS dropoff bin.

Some of it was stuff I’ve been planning for a while or was regular stuff:

Remove the desk downstairs and make a “guitar lesson” nook for Conor. Rewire the vintage lamp. Take the old soundbars to goodwill. Help Conor add his guitar teacher to his friend list in Fortnite so they can play sometimes. Go to Conor’s baseball game.

And some of it was tricky and required a lot of help:

OK the desk actually falls into this category. (Advil for E, Becca and me for sure.) Getting a new home for the tempurpedic bed.

And as it turns out, as I uncovered as I was on a stroll with Erin before dinner:

Absolutely every single piece of that fairly simple stuff was absolutely heavy as fuck.

Having to figure out the streaming stuff was a painful reminder that he isn’t here to manage all of that. Emailing about the estate flagged that, though we had planned a lot, there was still so much to sort out. Taking the medicines was an obscene show of just how much was required to keep him out of pain these last 12 months. He never even got to go to one of C’s baseball games.

The new living room set up was something we dreamed up together – planned when we did our porch addition. He never got to see it. Only ever got to see Conor play his new guitar twice. The lamp is something we picked out together and honestly, built the entire room around it. The login and parental controls for Xbox/Fortnite were tricky and I couldn’t figure them out.

And the desk was the last piece I hadn’t gone through. Notebooks full of his (impossible to read) writing. A card I had given him when we’d been dating for 3 months and I was already head over heels. Care instructions for the cutting boards he made people.

And the bed – a physical reminder of what where he had been the majority of the time for 6 months – an important gift that allowed us to sleep in the same space after he had been in a chair the previous 7 months. A bed that made it possible for him to sleep but made my shoulder and hip ache.

I’m so glad it’s gone. And yet, it’s so weird that it’s not here.

And he’s still not here. We didn’t have enough time to figure these things out. We didn’t get enough time in a regular bed.

I feel like I’m existing in some sort of alternate reality. An in-between. A medium place.

Most of the time, things are fine. I can laugh. I can tell stories. I can make jokes. I can eat.

But then there are other times when I’m alone and desperate. I can’t catch my breath. I can’t form a rational thought.

I dig through his drawers, his bags, his closet for new things. A new understanding or moment with him. Or perhaps a memory we hadn’t shared in some time. A new scrap of handwriting. A hidden memento.

I watch videos and scroll through photos, but never all of them. Never too many. I must leave some to be discovered later. When I need to hear a new version of his voice or remember the crinkle in his eyes that only came out when he was really, truly laughing.

I wish that we hadn’t done so much laundry and that his smell lingered. I wear his deodorant, his tshirts, his hoodies.

I stare into his photo that is the lock screen of my phone and whisper, “I just can’t believe you’re not here,” because I can’t but he isn’t.

But most of the time, I’m OK. I cooked dinner. Took a shower. Cleaned up a bit. Most of the time, it’s fine. My best friend came from New York just to be present. My family abandoned plans and assembled at the River. Brendan and Lauren, jetlagged, made it up 17 in time to join us for brunch. It was just right. We are so loved.

Conor is also fine, but I worry that he is also feeling the liminal space as we find our footing together. I don’t want him to have to sit with it as I have chosen to, so he plays fortnite and spends the nights with cousins and that feels right and so we keep going.

I am glad we went to the River. When Conor and I went a few weeks ago – when Preston first entered hospice – when we pulled every string we could to possibly get him there one last time – I couldn’t function. Especially once I knew he couldn’t get there after all. I couldn’t leave fast enough. Everything in the house reminded me that the space that he occupied as his most authentic self would only ever contain his things and never again his sparkle.

I texted him in my panic that I didn’t think I could go back there, and he responded, “It is our unifying place. We will always all be there together.”

I hope that is true. That as these days and weeks pass – when I’ve finally touched every possession and listened to every record and seen every picture – that I’ll still find him new in the world.

Because it’s just still so hard to believe he isn’t coming back.

He was, first and foremost, a wonderful husband and father. From the time I came into his life, and then when Conor joined us, I don’t think he made a single decision that didn’t center and consider both of us.

Preston made me feel beautiful and smart and capable and he laughed at all of my jokes.

He did not let Conor win at games and taught him how to be a good sport and appreciate good music.

He was the kind of person that made other people feel seen – as colleagues and family members and friends.

He was an exceptional listener.

He loved to fish, but even more than catching, he loved the sport of it. He loved trying to figure out exactly where they would be, and how to read the shore, and to research the gear.

He loved to build and make things with wood. From Conor’s backyard swingset to his shop at 4309 to picture frames and cutting boards to friends, and projects for me, he took great care in creating for others. Come to think of it, I don’t think he ever made something for himself. My craft table – lovingly painted with dandelions is a prized possession – so is my desk, and quit rack and cutting board and picture frame…

He encouraged me to pursue anything I could think up and encouraged me to stick with it. (and since I tend to hyperfixate on things for a short period of time, he had quite a number of opportunities.)

He loved Adam Sandler movies and Rob Schneider for some weird reason.

He adored his friends, and held them close. I really will always believe that the reason I met Kevin and Brendan back in college was to bring Preston to them some day.

The Pungo River was his favorite place – sitting on the shore, riding in a boat, pulling Conor in a tube, dragging my kayak in for me, kicking the kickball clear across the field to humble the children. Pouring daquiris to get us drunk. Cooking dinner when I was passed out on the kitchen floor due to said daquiris.

He loved, loved, loved, live music. Irish sessions in the back of a bar. Crowded, loud metal shows. Folksy singer-songwriters. Bluegrass. Classical. Broadway. I even drug him to a Josh Groban concert once and he didn’t complain. I’m so very grateful he made it to the Jason Isbell show in February.

He played the trombone! A lot of people don’t know that, because he had largely stopped playing by the time we got together. But that’s how we met! He and I were both hired to play the Christmas Cantata at Fuquay Varina United Methodist. We were in line at Moe’s during the break rolling our eyes about the show and he asked if I wanted to grab a beer after we were done. When he called a couple of days later for a “real” date, I was pretty pleased. We went to Champs for dinner and tried to watch a movie. I spent the night, and as far as I can remember, unless we had to for work or travel, we didn’t spend any apart after that.

The next day, I had dinner with my friend Shruthi and told her, “I went out with this guy last night, and I’m going to marry him.”

And I was right. And it was the best decision I ever made. And I feel so grateful to be loved by him.

He died this morning at about 7:45. They let me know it was close, and I turned on Bob Marley. I held his hand and told him how much I loved him. He took one last deep breath and I realized that “No Woman No Cry” was on and I told him I got the message.

Everything is going to be alright.

Ok, so that thing that I was expressing last night – that weird conflict of “I want my person here!” versus, “Please let them move on” has a name and it’s totally a whole thing. It’s called a “Compassionate Wish.” And it’s an acknowledgement that there is a massive difference between “being alive” and “living.”

So, thanks to y’all who are joining me in sending up a compassionate wish.

I learned that term from one of the social workers here. Look, I don’t think – even after 17 years in the nonprofit sector – that I could have articulated what the heck a social worker did. I know it’s an incredibly broad field. And they do all sorts of stuff. But I’ve never really intersected with them until the last few weeks.

And they’re freaking amazing and we don’t talk about how great they are enough. And like, “social worker” doesn’t feel like the right word. “Emotional caretaker?” “Great listener?” “Holder of hard conversations?” “Excellent huggers?” “Receiver of bad, dark jokes?”

I’ve been intersecting with two of them, and honestly, it’s not like I’ve spent tons of time with either of them. But they’ve been wildly helpful. They let me vent or joke as necessary. They have given incredible advice about how to help Conor. They’ve made sure I’ve eaten. It’s weird to feel so connected to strangers so quickly, but they’re just easy.

What a gift that is – to spend most of your time around people who are grieving – hard. And to take a little of that on yourself. With an impossible caseload, and not nearly enough of a paycheck. I appreciate that’s part of the consideration here. It’s as much about care for the patient as it is for us.

This is why I’m purposely on the branch of nonprofit work that is famously removed from direct service. I have all the respect in the world for people who can work directly with humans who are in pain. Maybe I could do it? I’m not sure I’d want to. So many big feelings to hold. So many tears. So much hugging.

Yeah, I think I’ll leave that to them. But I’ll definitely walk out of this experience with an entirely new understanding and appreciation of this important role in our society. They’re kinda the best.