Sitting in My Grief w/ Hope

This was not an easy write. Nor do I imagine it to be an easy read. These are my thoughts this morning.

One year ago today, I landed on the tarmac in Dublin, Ireland. I was sitting next to my younger daughter, Kira. As per usual, I switched my phone out of airplane mode and texted my family that we had arrived safely. Two seconds later, my phone rang. I looked down and saw it was my sister. And my heart broke. It instantly shattered. I could feel the shards of pain tear through my entire body. There was only one reason she would be calling me. My hand was shaking so much, it took three tries to swipe correctly to answer her call. 

I then heard her courageous voice sharing the unbearable news that my baby brother had died.

I went numb. Cold. Ice cold. And heavy. Cement heavy. I have only spotty recollection of what happened next. I know I told Kira the news. I know we hugged. For a while. I know I asked her to let me try to grieve in a different way this time (having had multiple losses recently) by going on with the trip we had planned for her college graduation. "It's what Uncle Billy wanted." I don't remember waiting for an answer from her. We got off the plane and miraculously adventured our way to our Airbnb. Eventually my older daughter Katina and her boyfriend Tommy arrived and I repeated the above, telling them the news and asking Katina something similar in regards to going on with the trip. Again, I don't remember waiting for an answer from her.

In the next 24 hours, I vaguely remember some churches and Trinity College and card games and hiding in bathrooms to cry and feeling deeply guilty that I couldn't muster up any semblance of motherhood to hold my daughters in their pain. I still feel horrible about that. 

And then I broke down. I remember waking up unable to breath. Gasping for air and needing to move. Needing to hit something. Needing to run, to scream. I needed to get home. I've never felt so helpless in all my life. "What was I thinking??? I'm in f$!%ing IRELAND?? WHY?? Oh my GOD. I need to get HOME! Oh, my baby brother..." And sobbing uncontrollably. I remember Katina holding me, tightly. I remember Kira's fingers tapping on her computer at lightning speed and her speaking on the phone in a firm voice. This lasted for hours, it seemed. The end result was that she got us on a flight out and I was able to calm down. I don't remember how much time passed or what we did before our flight. I really don't. Perhaps if someone reminded me...In fact, what I described above might not be how anyone else would recount this situation. 

Once I got home, a myriad of chaotic family life chapters ensued. For the next year. It's literally been nonstop since then. 

Clearly the request I made of my daughters to "let me grieve in a different way by going on with our trip" was bullshit code for me looking to escape. And it's clear to me that this has been a pattern for the past five years. I've spent so many years trying to forget. Other than work, every memory I have is haunted with excruciating loss. Dan, Mom, Billy, my marriage. It's quite obvious to me that I am capable of deep love because I feel such deep grief. (Thanks, Mom. I blame you. ;) 

But something new has happened during this pandemic. I've been forced to pause. My usual escape of work has not been available to me. Don't get me wrong; I am still working eight to ten hour days. But when I would go into the office, my days would always get sucked up by the unexpected, both good and challenging. Which means I would play catch-up at night. For the last three months, however, I've had at least 3-4 hours of free time in the evenings. That's new to me. Just me, alone with my thoughts. Let's be clear. I'm not a fan. At all. My head knows this is good for me, of course. And my discomfort has taught me a lot the last few months.

I've learned that time does not heal all wounds. I've learned that forgetting now doesn't lessen the pain later. I've learned that there is no circumventing grief. I've learned that strength can be me in a puddle on the ground as much as it can be me holding my daughters and sisters in their loss. And I am learning that memories of my losses can be simultaneously painful and pleasant. 

I was six years old when my brother was born. It was December, right after Christmas.

I remember my dad bringing him home in a stocking & me questioning when he could play ball.

I remember crawling into my brother's crib  & cuddling with him. Often.

I remember pulling my brother out of his crib when he was crying and the metal bar between his shoes (because he wore a brace) hitting me in the shins every time. I had permanent bruises. 

I remember reading WOW magazines with him, and doing the projects in each.

I remember swinging, running, jumping and throwing contests with him.

I remember climbing trees with him, particularly our willow tree.

I remember him wetting his hair down every morning & putting a cap on to straighten his curls.

I remember pulling out his loose teeth for him, per his request.

I remember teaching him how to handle a basketball with my dribbling glasses. 

I remember soon after, he was teaching me new tricks.

I remember letting him drive when he was ~12 & getting pulled over; he was driving too slowly.

I remember him at my basketball games, cheering me on.

I remember being at his basketball games, cheering him on.

I remember him being angry when I started dating, until my senior year when I dated someone who enjoyed spending time with him, too. 

I remember how he would be seemingly disengaged from a conversation, sitting silently on the side, secretly observing and absorbing intently. And then, in his quiet, clever, seamless manner, injecting some unique perspective that either made us think deeply or laugh uncontrollably.

I remember his genuine love for my daughters, how in awe of them he was, how proud of them he was. Every single time we talked, he bragged on them something fierce.

I remember so many moments in my life when he was my confidant and guide.

I remember his deep voice, contagious laughter and protective hug.

And I would give anything to have him here with me today.

I remember so much more...this is all I have the capacity to share right now.

I'm in so much pain today. Indescribable pain remembering my baby brother. And for the first time, in the years I've been navigating three major life losses, I'm setting aside time to feel. To heal. Gods I'm a slow learner...And I f$I&ing hate this. AND I know it's needed.

Billy, I miss you so very much. 

My Senior Picture...

...is not accessible right now. It's in storage. :) But I would choose to share this picture anyway.

In high school, there was nothing I liked more than playing basketball. I played 3-4 hours a day, every day. And I was in heaven. I couldn't get enough.

This is a picture of me walking off the court at the end my last high school basketball game. A local newspaper photographer caught this image as my teammate Shelly congratulated me one last time. This shot perfectly captures how I was feeling in the moment. Despondent. I was going to miss this so much. Honestly, I still do.

When people ask me about my high school memories, basketball is what I think of most. I can hear my Adidas squeaking on the court, feel the basketball as an extension of my hand, smell the musty, old locker room. My locker was #1002 and the combination was 3-5-47. I can still tell you how best to get the ball to each teammate on every play. And I don't believe I've ever laughed harder than I did on the bus to and from our games. Fun times!

I learned so much from basketball. Loyalty, hard work, collaboration, leadership, for instance. I learned how to bounce back from disappointment. I learned how to push myself beyond what I thought I could do. I learned how to be coachable and practice humility. And so much more.

I cannot imagine the loss I would've felt had my last season been unexpectedly shut down as many of our senior athletes are experiencing now. All seniors are feeling a sense of loss. I am seeing so many musicians and singers putting together a virtual substitute for their performances. I've tried so hard to think about how to capture at least a bit of the spirit that exists playing on a sports team in a similar manner. But how do I capture the harmony I contributed in my role as point guard to the other players on the court via Zoom?

To spring season senior athletes, I see you. I empathize with the loss you must be feeling. And I hope you are taking care of yourselves, doing what you can to remain fueled by your passion of working out in the sport you love.

Take a look at this video from Nike (by Wieden + Kennedy). Your sacrifice is a part of the story described in it, of those making a difference and saving lives. And I hope that some special homecoming exists for you and your teams next year, to celebrate one another in person, perhaps on the track, field, court, etc. 

For now, #StayStrong #StayHealthy and know that #YouAreTheLight

My Teaching Friends, This is YOUR Moment...

...and it's about damn time, too. :)

We finally (and unfortunately) know what it might take for the world to get a tiny glimpse into the selflessness, endurance, empathy, and compassion necessary to live the life of a teacher.

A pandemic.

The last few weeks have been intense, with a plethora of uncontrollable circumstances surfacing quickly. There have been a great many mysterious meetings held in governmental "offices." Many follow-ups in superintendency-led Zooms. All with the hopes that some familiar problem-solving strategy would help guide the way in determining what the next couple weeks (and months) ought to look like. Based on the resulting swirling questions, ever-changing decrees, constant uncertainties, and increasing variables, clearly we are experiencing a first. And routine problem-solving was quickly exhausted.

And yet there's something about this horrible health crisis that I believe has the potential to profoundly and positively change the way U.S. society views our profession. Just as health care professionals literally hold our lives in their hands, teachers are now being called upon to hold the hearts and minds of our youth in theirs, in a collective manner like never before.

This, my dearest colleagues, is a moment in history where teachers will no longer remain as an invisible backdrop to society's emotional infrastructure.

The things that you do every single day—instinctually, selflessly, consistently—will no longer remain in the shadows. How you compassionately and skillfully hold the well-being of 140 individuals in your head and heart every day, five days a week, will now be seen and felt by the masses. Unlike any other time in history...

...because you are bridging school with home, teacher with family, learning with life.

During this remote learning experience, you may be in a purposeful or serendipitous moment: you may meet other family members, perhaps grandparents, aunties, baby siblings, even pets; you may eat a meal with your students, because that's the only time you or they have to eat; you may get to see your student as a daughter or son, as a sister or brother, in a responsible role. (That's a very different identity than what you typically get to interact with at school, no matter how well you get to know your students.) First year teacher? Thirtieth year veteran? Doesn't matter. This is the Apollo 13 version of fixing the LM's carbon dioxide filter: no textbook or simulation has prepared us for this.

In the midst of a health crisis, teachers are entering homes to carry families through it.

And this will be tough. Joy and Pain will live side by side for a long while. And we aren't being asked to move gently into a new way of being to meet this new "normal." And neither are our students or their families. We've been catapulted there. Inequities will become in-your-face apparent. Survival needs, health problems and job losses will be part of our daily conversations. (Perhaps this might explain some of the discombobulation we already feel.)


This provides us with an opportunity to balance these tough moments with Affirmation. Compassion. Innovation. Joy.


So in the midst of all this, I urge you—I beg of you—to play. PLAY! Push your practice to a new dimension. You may never have this opportunity again. To literally launch a new way for schools to function, rooted in the teachers' and students' lived experiences. What will you do with this chance? What will you learn? What does your class look like, feel like, sound like, when no one is there giving you traditional boundaries, requiring content objectives? When students' lives dictate the direction of the educational experiences, what's the curricular result?

How will students remember this moment in time with you? Because THIS IS one of those moments in their lives that they'll remember. For life. YOU ARE THAT teacher.

And as I stated, I think the teaching profession will be looked at differently from now on. Our communities might gain a deeper understanding of why teaching has been described as one of the noblest of professions. I share this not as pressure. It's something I've always believed. I always will. And now, others will get to see it, too. And they'll picture your face behind this newfound understanding.

Please know that I'm here to support you on this journey! I'm looking forward to intentionally and awkwardly walking through it with you. And helping to provide healing spaces for us to be together. Because we'll need that, too. Thank you in advance for all you do. It's an honor to be a part of this collective.

No matter how we've connected in the past—any content, any level, any continent—happy to brainstorm interactions you're developing with and for your students.

And above all, #StayHome, #StayConnected, #StayHealthy

Rush University Med School Awards Ceremony

(They told me 90 seconds. Yikes!)

Good evening everyone. It is my distinct pleasure to be here to award the Daniel Welsh MD Memorial Scholarship. Quickly, I’d like to share a bit about the man behind the award’s name. Dan and I grew up together; we went to grade school, high school, and college together. Dan possessed an effortless charm and indomitable spirit. Energy permeated the room when he walked through the door. You could feel it. You see, Dan lived every moment with incomparable intensity and integrity. Whatever experience life was offering him, he jumped in full throttle. In fact, he was quite exhausting to be around! Pleasantly exhausting, but exhausting nonetheless. And it was this passion for life that drove Dan to become the best doctor he could be. To have his very purpose be rooted in authentic personal relationships and to take care of those around him. That may sound cliché, but I have stories to support it (as does Mrs. Welsh who is here tonight) and never tire of telling them. Just ask my daughters and students.

I’ve had the privilege to read through today’s award recipient’s application. It is so heartwarming for me to see such similarities in his words and Dan’s legacy. “Beyond the sophisticated craft and intellectual stimulation, the most meaningful aspects of General Surgery are the patients I have had the privilege to serve...I have tried to be a source of support to our patients...and to make their hospitalization as comfortable as possible.”

To this year’s recipient, when you look at this plaque, may it help fuel you with “Dan-like energy” and may it consistently remind you of your own passions to “provide meaningful and definitive care to patients” and “to work with compassion and empathy every day.”

On behalf of the Welsh family, my sincerest congratulations to Dr. Raghav Chandra.


Dr. Daniel Welsh