First Day of School

I start my MBA program today. I have been anticipating the start of this degree for over two years, and now, today, it begins.

There are many things I have correctly anticipated about what this - my first day of school - would be like. I am wearing a suit. The day begins with coffee and a meet-and-greet. There will be formal introductions, a class portrait, a champagne reception (Yipee!). I will meet tons of new people and remember some of their names. I will meet my professors and try to not be intimidated, but I will be intimidated, and that's okay. I will finish the day exhausted but - I hope - exhilarated.

What I never could have imagined, and what will be with me all day long, is this:

My stepdad once studied at the university at which I am matriculating.

And:

Today is his birthday.

John did a summer science program here, and he was in nerd heaven (as I soon will be, though studying finance, not physics). He loved this place. He and my mom lived here that summer, and thereafter our house was adorned in university paraphernalia. Tea towels, mugs, plates, t-shirts, sweatshirts, scarves, baseball caps, winter hats, posters, calendars.

Now, all that paraphernalia (and all the new paraphernalia my mom and I have since added to the collection) takes on a new meaning, as this becomes my school, my future graduate alma mater.

The universe works in mysterious ways. I know that's a corny thing to say, but I believe it. And I will relish the connection I will feel to John, today and every day that I study here. I know he would have been bursting with pride and telling everyone within earshot that I am doing my MBA here, just like he did when I got a perfect score on my math SAT ten years ago.

I believe there is good karma all around me today, and I will absorb it as best I can.

Happy Birthday, John. Thank you for inspiring me to be the best student, and the best person, I can be.

Leroy Sievers, 1955-2008

Oh gosh. This is a sad one.

Header courtesy of NPR

Leroy Sievers, a well-known journalist, died last night. He was diagnosed with colon cancer in 2001, and passed away at the age of 53.

I have been following Leroy's cancer journey through his NPR blog, My Cancer. I must admit, I didn't read it as thoroughly as I could have - the parallels to my stepdad hit a little too close to home. But the blog is astonishing in its candor, and if you have the emotional energy for it, I greatly encourage you to read it.

Sievers began the blog in February 2006, when his cancer returned after first being treated four years earlier. What began as colon cancer had spread to his brain and lung. Sievers was told he had six months to live. Two and a half years later - this morning, at 7:59AM eastern time - came the post that began, "Dear Friends: I'm so sorry to bring you this news." And it wasn't written by Leroy.

Cancer never ceases to deal bad hands to good people, which, to me, is the most frustrating thing about it.

But instead, I try to focus on the silver lining: look at Sievers' legacy. Not only did he have an exceptional career as a journalist, but he has also left us his blog, My Cancer, the accomplishment of which he said he was most proud. This blog is tragic, but full of insight and even - way down deep in there, between the lines and beyond the pixels - hope.

What was to be Leroy's final post came on Thursday, August 14th. He titled it "The Dog We Never Had," and he wrote:

"He is the dog we never had.

He's a Bernese Mountain dog. A big one. We always knew what his name was going to be ...'Spanky' ... no matter what.

The fact that he would be a toy didn't really bother us. We couldn't have a real one because we both traveled too much.

So here he is, sitting with me on the bed. My comrade in cancer.

A boy and his dog."

To me, this post encapsulates the cancer journey. When my stepdad John was sick, especially in the final weeks and days of his life, we were all swirling in a sea of emotion. But even during that tumultuous time, I couldn't help but be fascinated by how the simplest things brought him joy. Like a child. This brilliant man, a physicist and an eternal academic, smiling like a boy in the final days of his life.

I remember thinking to myself at the time, "So this is the circle of life. It's not a cliche after all." Leroy Sievers' final post captures the same feeling. "A boy and his dog." Tragically, Leroy Sievers' circle, like John's, closed far too early. But how phenomenal that he let us all inside before it did.


For complete NPR coverage, click here.

I Stand For My Stepdad

Here I am! (At about 2:08 - right after the french bulldogs - coincidentally, my favorite type of dog! That must be a sign of something, right?)



Wow. Can't say I don't have tears streaming down my face after that one. Hope you'll take a moment to watch it all the way through.

To learn more about this video, check out When Tara Met Blog and SU2C's Virtual Stand Up.

A Dear John Letter

Dear John,

Four years ago today, we had a really sucky day, didn’t we.

Surreally sucky, in fact. I got mom’s call around 6:00am – the dreaded call that I somehow knew was coming that morning. I rolled out of bed, crawling into my teal Gap hoodie that I’ve had since high school – a sweatshirt in July seems crazy I know, but I needed the comfort – and headed to the hospital. I got there, and Mom was there, and you were there. But you weren’t really. Your body was, but you’d already peaced out. So to speak.

But I won’t dwell on that day. Because today is a better 24th of July. We’re still sad, Mom and I. We still had tears in our eyes as we headed to the outlet mall this morning, talking about how you would want us to be bargain-hunting today. Not that we needed anything at the outlets – we’re just trying to distract ourselves. And that’s okay.

The air is thick with you today. And that’s okay too.

At the Coach outlet, Mom treated herself to a good lookin’ signature tote bag – first quality, not the crap they’re making for the outlets these days – with purple patent leather trim. The saleslady who helped us was named Hannah. We took that as a sign that you were with us.

Wherever you are – and I do believe that you are still somewhere in this universe, in some capacity – I hope you are happy, and at peace. I hope you have retained your passion and your intellect and your integrity and your quirks (well, most of them anyway).

I hope you know how much we love you, and will always love you.

From Michigan, then, where Mom is finding much-deserved happiness – though I’m sure that’s not news to you,

Love,
Jennifer