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It was all the names that did me in. Sunday's Light [the] Hill luminaria "celebration of hope" at Kershaw Park was so much more impactful than I could had imagined.  More than beautiful, more than sacred, more than a peaceful walk along the lake . The half-mile stretch of 900 lights — each with a name carefully handwritten — was a silent testimony of lifetimes of love, family, hard work, service, personality and story. I was awed in the presence of a ll that living, all that dying, and all those precious relationships.   When my dad passed last June, I knew it would take months for the reality to sink in. And it's starting to, a little, which is why it was so easy to appreciate the depth and breadth of the love that families were experiencing as they walked the length of the park, reading their loved  ones' names. It felt good to smile and remember without doubling over in pain. It felt good to cry quiet, healing tears.  So thank you, 900 luminarias and Ligh...

Here he is. The man who inspired me to live today and tell the people I love how much they mean to me. He's accomplished more in his lifetime than you and I could dream of... so far. He doesn't do anything quietly or cautiously. He does it in CAPS. There has to be more for him. There has to be more for me, and for all of us. Get busy folks. Do a few card tricks. Amaze the people who know you best. Catch some crazy fish in Russia or South Africa. Collect fine wines. Cherish some singular, inspired artistic pieces. Love the second love of your life with all your might. Savor memories and dream a new dream. That's what Bill is doing. If he can do it, I can.

Dan Gnagy gets medication during his chemo treatment at Strong Memorial from Linda Ullrich RN, BAN, CON to treat esophageal cancer. I'm so glad I'm not a doctor. Now more than ever I'm utterly relieved I'm not the person who has to find bad things on an x-ray, read devastating results on a lab report, and take that chilling walk back to the exam room to deliver life-altering news. I'm profoundly grateful I'm not the one who has to look into the eyes of a patient and reveal a reality that will knock them to the ground and change their life forever. I'm also deeply indebted to the doctors who are called to do what I will never have the guts to do. I am mightily impressed. Recently I had the great fortune/misfortune/education of sitting in on an interview with Dr. Jeffrey Peters, Thoracic Surgeon and Chair of the Department of Surgery at the University of Rochester Medical Center. (Yeah, he's an articulate genius who could expound until ...

Lauren Vassello She's got her own identity. She's got her own name, her own job, her own life. But in my mind, she will always be Lauren's mom. And she made me rethink what it means to be a mother. I was struggling last week to write a tribute about her beautiful 13-year-old daughter who, after battling an extremely rare and aggressive form of cancer, passed away. It was just one year ago that the family had been blind-sided with the devastating diagnosis. I called Stephany and clumsily stumbled through a few awkward, shallow questions. I felt like I was trampling on holy ground. Then I said, "tell me about Lauren." For the next hour I did nothing but type and listen. This super-human mom recounted her daughter's journey from the first phone call from the doctor to her final moments in the hospital, reciting every detail with the driven automation of a machine, the precision of a surgeon, and the energy of a tornado. She seemed to be on a mission to ret...