She's On My Mind Today

April 12, 2025, was a highly unusual day for me—one I've been thinking about all week as its anniversary approached. It was a day that held a mixture of dread, trepidation, and a longing for something I knew to be true, to not be.

I woke up at 2:30 a.m. with Hudson snuggled beside me, and I loved the feeling of contentment and security so much that I hated to get out of bed. "So much has to happen before we can do this again," I said to him as I snuggled closer.

It was the day I was flying to LA to pay my respects at my sister-in-law Katie's memorial. She'd died suddenly the previous November, and the family had waited before having the service.

In so many ways, Katie was the center of my in-law family. She organized the holiday events, was a cheerleader for all of us, and was critical for my survival once Ken was re-diagnosed in 2009. After he died, she remained a lifeline for me, checking on me, texting with me, sending me things to make me laugh.

Shortly after Ken died, Katie sent me the most beautiful orchid.

I'm sad she's not here for many important reasons, but the most self-indulgent one is that she would have been my number one supporter for my memoir, The Luck We Carry, which includes an essay about her. I couldn't help it. She was part of the fabric of the family I married into. Plus, she and Ken were friends before they were in-laws. They always had a close relationship. And, as I wrote above, she was a pillar for me when Ken died.

But what I like to remember about April 12, 2025, is that I showed up for her and for the family. When I walked into the church, I scanned the room to find my brother-in-law, mother-in-law, and my two nephews so I could squeeze them with my love. As soon as I crossed the threshold, all trepidation evaporated. I would be the person I needed to be.

I'd been asked to speak, which was an incredible privilege. I told the story of how Katie came to Chicago with a tattoo of a stuffed animal Ken had. She and my brother-in-law actually gifted it to Ken the year before. It was made by a family friend whom I had met several times in our early LA days. When the service was over, a family friend I didn't know well came up to me and put her phone to my ear. It was Renee, the friend, who had made the stuffed animal. She was watching the service online and was so thrilled I'd brought it. We had a lovely, but short, catch-up on the phone.

Above are PadLo, the stuffed animal; the tattoo on Ken's arm; and the artist's rendering sent to me by the incredibly talented artist to keep after Ken's death that I still have--along with "real" PadLo.

I'm writing this because I want to remember Katie, but also the incredible sea of love and connection I felt immersed in inside that room before, during, and after the service. It's these rituals after we lose someone we love that are so critical to our hearts and our minds. And it seems to be part of mine to reflect on them and remind myself to be grateful for the people who have shaped who I am.