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HOME

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I have thought about writing this post a lot; in anticipation of when we get to go home.

As our family has navigated chronic disease over the years, we have learned something that can’t be measured in lab values or scans: there is incredible healing in simply being home.

No matter how sick my brother Ryan was, he wanted to be home. For Samantha, home meant routine. It meant familiar sounds, familiar smells, her own bed, and our family together. We were always at our best when we were home.

So today, I am incredibly happy to write these four simple words:

Cynde is home.

That doesn’t mean home is without its challenges.

Cynde came home on TPN (Total Parenteral Nutrition), which provides all of her nutrition intravenously because cancer has made it impossible for her digestive system to absorb what she needs. TPN bypasses the gastrointestinal tract completely, but it isn’t as simple as hanging a bag of fluids. It requires careful monitoring of blood sugar, electrolytes, liver function, and signs of infection.

Because her digestive system isn’t reliably absorbing medications either, treatments like blood thinners have to be given by injection instead of by mouth. Hence, Pops is giving Cynde a shot 2x a day.

But they are home.

The view outside their windows is beautiful. The sheets are soft. There are no IV pumps chiming every few minutes and no monitors beeping through the night. Home looks different than it did a month ago, but home has a remarkable way of making room for life’s changes.

Pops sent me a picture tonight. Cynde is calm. She’s smiling. She looks comfortable. And right now, comfort feels like the very best medicine.

I also have to give a heartfelt shout-out to their incredible neighbors.

Neighbors showed up last night with a perfectly cooked ribeye steak, mashed potatoes, and several homemade meals—all carefully labeled and prepared with love. It should surprise no one that the ribeye and mashed potatoes disappeared first.

Later, Pops sent a text that perfectly captured the moment:

“I am so happy. I had a great meal from a lovely, unexpected source. Sometimes these times bring out the best in everyone.”

He’s right.

As the daughter, I don’t have the words to thank everyone who has reached out, sent prayers, delivered meals, checked in, or simply loved our family through this.

This diagnosis hit us like a wrecking ball.

To be perfectly honest, we are still grieving the loss of my brother, Ryan. Before we could even catch our breath, ovarian cancer entered our lives. The timing has been overwhelming, and there have been days when it has felt like the ground beneath us disappeared.

But then something beautiful happened…..and continuous to happen….

Our family, our friends, our neighbors, and our community stepped in. Again.

You have shown up with love, phone calls, hugs, prayers, and countless acts of kindness. You have cared not only for Cynde but for Pops, making sure he remembers to eat while he spends every waking moment caring for the woman he loves.

We will get through this. We know we can do hard things.

But it is so much easier when someone is walking beside you, holding your hand along the way.

Thank you doesn’t feel like enough.

But from the bottom of our hearts…

Thank you.

And to home.

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A Week Ago

On By HschichieIn blog18 Comments

I woke up this morning thinking about where we were just one week ago and how far we’ve come in seven days.

Last Saturday, Cynde was incredibly sick after Friday’s chemo treatment. She couldn’t keep anything down, so she and Pops spent the day in the Emergency Room searching for answers.

There really weren’t any answers that day, just an overzealous doctor who insisted she eat a Saltine cracker. Around midnight, after a frustrating standoff over that poor little cracker, they left exhausted, discouraged, and wondering what came next.

Sometimes these medical journeys have to get worse before they can get better.

Cynde’s angry Tum finally demanded the attention of exactly the right specialists, and that’s what it got. Aside from a couple of bumps along the way, her care has been exceptional. Every day has brought a little more progress, and right now, that’s exactly what we’re celebrating.

I also owe everyone an apology for disappearing after Wednesday’s update. I’m hoping we can all agree that when you don’t hear from me, it’s usually because things are quietly moving in the right direction.

So where are we today?

Cynde is getting stronger.

The TPN has allowed her digestive system to rest, and it seems to be making a real difference. The body wants to heal when we give it the chance.

And sometimes the biggest victories are the simplest ones.

She took a shower.

She’s walking the halls.

She’s sipping tea.

Then this morning they casually told me they were having breakfast together. Naturally, I assumed that meant Pops was enjoying pancakes while Cynde continued her gourmet TPN through her central line.

Nope.

She had scrambled eggs…and an English muffin.

Last weekend, one little cracker seemed impossible.

Today it was eggs and an English muffin.

All of this is about getting her strong enough for the next round of chemo because, in the end, it’s this stubborn cancer that’s causing all of these roadblocks. Her port will be placed on July 9, and chemo is scheduled to begin again on July 10.

I know this all sounds overwhelming, but her medical team continues to reassure us that, as difficult as this has been, none of it is unexpected with this type of cancer.

When I talked with Cynde yesterday, she said something that has stayed with me.

“We can do hard things.”

That’s what she wants everyone to know.

This is hard. And she can do hard things.

So we’re looking ahead to a possible Monday discharge. Home. Healing. One step at a time.

Thank you, as always, for your prayers, your messages, your encouragement, and for walking this road with us.

Happy weekend, dear tribe. ❤️

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No Soup For You!

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I am a big Seinfeld fan, and sometimes my mind works in odd ways….when we talked through today’s update, my thought went to ‘No Food For You’! So I think you know where I am going with this.

Cynde’s tum is fighting a big fight. It seems like that is where her cancer cells have set up camp, making eating or drinking impossible. I started to type nearly impossible, but really, it is impossible right now for her to get the nutrition she needs through traditional means, i.e., eating and drinking.

And if you take eating and drinking (or the lack thereof) out of the equation, she looks really good. Cynde is committed to walking, standing, sitting up, and moving her body as much as she can. Side note, she pooped yesterday!!! YAY POOP!

But this tummy issue is a big one. And the doctors have decided to give her belly a rest while it fights this assy cancer.

You know what is really cool? Science and the time we live in. For the time being, Cynde will receive nutrition through a process called TPN (Total Parenteral Nutrition). TPN is nutrition delivered directly into the bloodstream through a central IV line; it completely bypasses the digestive tract. Although your tummy may rumble, saying it’s hungry, it is really your cells that need to be fed. TPN is the McDonald’s milkshake of intravenous nutrition. It contains:

  • Calories (dextrose)
  • Protein (amino acids)
  • Fats (lipids)
  • Vitamins and minerals
  • Electrolytes and fluids

The good thing is that she can go home on TPN. She will have a backpack that will deliver this complex nutrition to her hungry cells, which are eager to fatten up so they can get back out there and fight this assy cancer.

We want this fix to be temporary- the tummy likes to feel useful, and we don’t want it to get the impression that it’s not needed, but it might take a while. Instead of taking her to lunch, maybe go to a fabulous garden….ironically, flowers don’t have tummies either 🙂

Cynde moved out of the ICU today, and that was a win. Poop is a win. And having a team that acknowledges the best treatment protocol is also a win.

She also said she has been craving a big, icy Coca-Cola. This is funny because she is not a soda girl. I told her this will be her celebratory drink once she can have a sip or two.

Pops is good. After doing a tour of the hotels in Aurora, Hampton Inn, Comfort Inn, La Quinta, he has decided that the Hampton Inn is the winner, but there is no place like home.

To Home! For Cynde and Pops, let’s try to picture them back in Arvada, TPN backpack and all, watching the sunset on their beautiful patio.

Tomorrow, my friends.

PS- I’ve gotten a couple of questions about my WordPress site. Right now, you have to click on the comments section to see the comments. You can also follow my updates here. I am working on making the comments available under the post. Hold tight!

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I Scream, You Scream……

On By HschichieIn blog4 Comments

Cynde’s eating ice cream!

I knew before all of this what a great and powerful tribe you are, but you’re somehow still exceeding expectations. Thank you for that.

After our post yesterday, our amazing nurse came into Cynde’s room and asked what she needed most.

Without hesitation, she said, “I want this NG tube out.”

If she could have manifested one thing in that moment, it would have been the removal of that tube.

I have to tell you, good nurses are the best. This stinkin’ tube is nestled down in her stomach and goes out her nose; that’s a lot of tube. She told the nurse she was really worried that its extraction would be painful.

“Let me get some cream that will numb your nose,” he said.

He came back with some lidocaine cream and carefully applied it.

“Let me just make sure you’re numb.”

And with that, abracadabra, he removed the tube before she even realized what had happened.

Nice job, Dustin. Nice job.

And after the tube came out, they decided she should celebrate with a little ice cream.

She ate it.

She kept it down.

Double, triple yay!!!

This morning was about mobility, getting her to walk and sit upright to help things move around. And you know our Cynde, she was all about all of that.

The team decided she was stable enough to move down to the Oncology Gynecology floor (GynOC), and they were putting plans in place when I left. The ICU team sees a lot of really sick people and has a hard job. It was evident that in 48 hours, they had gotten pretty attached to the fam and are happy/sad to see us go. Dad even handpicked some high-performance golf balls for our nutritionist’s husband. She was pretty touched.

The goal of the ICU team is to get you out of the ICU and onto your care team. We leave feeling super relieved about the progress over the last 48 hours, but concerned that we do not want to return.

This means assy rattlesnake cancer is still poking around her belly. The GynOC team will address the ‘breadcrumbs’ in her belly and work to ensure she gets the nutrition she needs while avoiding stress on her system. The process might seem slow but they are being cautious and deliberate.

It will be a delicate dance, but Cynde used to be a ballerina. She can learn the steps.

The rest of us will follow along- and I mean that literally. Pops’ spirits were great this morning, so much so that Cynde had to tell him to shush a couple times so she could talk to the docs.

As for me, I am grateful I can be there. I had a moment when one of the nurses asked if I had any siblings, and I got teary thinking about Ryan. AND then we had to explain our situation, which is hard, but it is who we are.

I will update tomorrow about moving day onto the GynOC floor. I have had a couple of people reach out to say they commented but cannot see their comments here; I will work on that. For now, this blog is the best place to get updates. You can also reach me at heather.schichtel@gmail.com. Texts are good too, but we are getting a lot of them. If we don’t get back to you, please do not take it personally; we are trying to keep a village informed, an awesome, amazing village.

I took a photo of Cynde and asked AI to have her eating ice cream; this is what it came back with. I am manifesting this photo as a picture of health 🙂

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We Need Some Good News

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I need some good news: I love this toe-tappin ’ song by Shaboozey. I would listen to it in the car when Ryan was sick, my hand tapping in tune on the steering wheel, singing the lyrics. But I could never get through singing along; I would always tear up, choke up, and let Shaboozey take the wheel.

Man, what a hell of a year it’s been
Keep on bluffin’, but I just can’t win
Drowned my sorrows, but they learned to swim
Man, what a hell of a year it’s been

It hurts my soul to write that we are calling for some good news, yet again.

Are you hanging on?

Are you saddled up with me?

Because this one came from out of the universe and smacked our tight-knit, surviving family on the side of the head.

Our Cynde, my stepmama, Nonnie, and Pops’ beloved, was diagnosed with Ovarian Cancer a couple of weeks ago. I won’t give stages, because really stages mean nothing, but I will tell you that this cancer is meaner than a rattlesnake in a sleeping bag. Not that any cancer is nice or cooperative; none of them are, but this one is particularly assy.

We have gone through diagnosis and had a plan last week. It was a tough plan: chemo, surgery, chemo wash during surgery, chemo. We like our oncologist, and Anschutz was on it.

But these terrible cells hold court in her belly, making eating, drinking, and pooping impossible. Cynde has been miserable and unable to hold food down for over a week. Eating a cracker is an impossible task.

When you can’t eat a cracker for seven days, and you have assy cancer holding court in your belly, AND, since Ovarian cancer makes your blood really clotty, so blood clots are an issue as well, you end up in the ICU.

Which was exactly where we found ourselves yesterday.

To make things a little more complex, Pops, being the amazing Pops he is, was dropping the Phews off in Michigan yesterday BECAUSE my sweet Phews JUST lost their dad and they need some time with cousins on a lake.

Cynde’s journey to the ICU started as an appointment to drain fluid from her belly. A friend took her to Anschutz early yesterday morning. (Thank you, Sue).

Around noon, Sue and I started texting….

Things aren’t great; I think they are going to admit her.

We are in room 123

They are concerned about a couple of things… going to the ICU.

When can you get here?

Call when you get here.

It’s funny how trauma takes you back. How you can drive that same route to the hospital, smell the same smells, yell at the same cars. How time can stand still, and the medical world moves so fast.

A brief hug with Sue at the entrance and into the room to talk to the doctors. A long story short (er), they scoped Cynde’s belly and determined that these terrible stomach issues do not require emergency GI surgery, but they do require a super uncomfortable NG tube, rest for her stomach, and hope that she can eat a cracker very soon.

Pops came in- in a rush to hear the good news that surgery on a Sunday night was not needed.

Today, things look better. The NG tube is pulling out cancer goo. The clots are being addressed with meds; Cynde is upright and alert.

We have moved from are we dealing with a surgical emergency?” to “Can we medically stabilize her and figure out the best cancer treatment plan?”

Is that the good news, Shaboozey? I guess we have to take it as such.

I know….I know, I know, I know. It is a lot. But I will tell you this about my people-

  • We are strong in a crisis. I am not tooting my own horn, but I know this about all of us.
  • We have a great medical team.
  • Whether we like it or not, this is where we are right now.

What is needed? That is a tough question. For my friends, I ask what I asked six months ago when Ryan went into Hospice… please let me move in and out. I might not respond to everything, but don’t count me out- I need my people. And thank you for letting me keep taking all the oxygen in the room.

For my Pops. Call, leave a message, call again. Take him golfing, take him to lunch. Hold his hand if he cries, make it awkward.

For Cynde, I have known this woman for over 40 years. She is so strong, tough as nails, and so private. She doesn’t need a meal train; she doesn’t want a fuss or pity; she doesn’t want flowers because she says they die and that makes her sad….she wants to manifest all of her energy into fighting this terrible disease. She wants to be here for her husband and grandchildren…..send that into the universe and give it a little extra moxie.

People will tell you during times like these to take care of yourself. Sometimes taking care of yourself means knowing exactly where you need to be and showing up anyway.

So that’s what we’re doing.

We’re showing up.

For Pops.

For Cynde.

For each other.

And for now, we’re taking our good news where we can find it. No emergency surgery. A stomach that can rest. A medical team we trust. A woman tough as nails who is still sitting upright and fighting.

Man, what a hell of a year it’s been.

We’re still here, Shaboozey.

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Vail closed the mountain before we could ski- but it wasn’t about skiing anyway

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No Snow. No Powder. Just People.
You Show Up Anyway.

Last weekend, I attended Adaptive Spirit—an event my family has been part of for decades. I’ve volunteered for years. It’s a weekend in Vail that raises money for the U.S. Paralympic Ski, Snowboard, and Nordic Teams. It’s a weekend for skiing.

Except this year… we didn’t.

Vail closed the mountain two days before the event. There was no snow and the driest winter in 47 years.

We didn’t ski in Vail, but we showed up anyway, and that was for the better. This weekend isn’t really about skiing. It’s about grit, resiliency, the power of the human spirit and what happens after everything changes. People whose lives are split into before and after, and those who kept moving without a clear path back.

I sat with Andrew Kurka. At 13, an ATV accident severely damaged his spine. He became a monoskier and competed in World Cup races. He qualified for the US Paralympic team and in Sochi, he crashed and broke his back again.

Seriously? Again?! That’s where most stories stop but Andrew didn’t stop. He won gold and silver in PyeongChang and bronze in Cortina. Now he’s mentoring younger athletes.

No big speech about resilience. Just the work.

I spent time with Josh Sweeney: Marine Corps Scout Sniper in Afghanistan.

In 2009 he hit an IED and lost both of his legs. Some people would call that the end, but Josh found another way to serve his country; as a Paralympian. He medaled in gold in sled hockey in 2014 and recently won the gold in Italy for the biathlon relay.

Josh and his gold medal

And then there is Patrick Halgren, a silver medalist in Cortina. He looked at the patchy conditions in Vail and decided to hike up the ski hill. Patrick has one leg, and Vail is steep, but he hiked up anyway and skied down.

No crowd. No podium. No reason to do it other than the fact that he could.

And I realized something in spending time with people who keep getting up. It’s time to move forward, because I’ve been waiting:

Waiting for things to feel manageable.
Waiting for some version of normal to return.
Waiting for the last year to make sense.

It doesn’t.

There is no clean arc, no moment life resolves into something meaningful. Sometimes, things are not meaningful.

What is meaningful is what you do next, and rebuilding without a map.

It takes resilience to be resilient, but here’s what I’m starting to see: I can’t wait for things to feel right before I start moving. I can just start to move.

Maybe resilience isn’t something you feel.

Resilience is behavior:

when there’s no snow…
no powder…
no plan…

You go anyway.

Because staying still doesn’t change anything.

And in the end, it is never about the snow.

It is always about the people.

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My Mama’s Post to her Son:

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Hey All:

We are doing better and finding ways to moved forward. As this is not only my blog but our ‘place’ to memorialize family memories, I am honored to share my Mama’s words about our Ryan.

Good Job Mama, your fierce bravery astounds us.


Good afternoon. I’m Judi Bishop, Ryan’s mom. Thank you for coming to celebrate my amazing son. A special thanks to all of you who have been so supportive of our family during this difficult Mito journey.

Many of you knew Ryan when he was a great athlete, an outstanding football player and skier, an intelligent, dedicated and successful businessman and a wonderful friend. He loved sailing, scuba diving, and hiking. He spent a month in the Wind River with NOLS.

He had an infectious laugh, an awesome sense of humor and a love of travel and adventure.

Once his illness progressed, he became a stay at home Dad to his 3 sons. Many of you only knew him as the man using the walker or in a wheelchair with a limited ability to speak. But that was not who he was.

Ryan’s love for the outdoors began as a toddler. One of his first words was “outside”, standing at the back door. My Mom said the only time she saw him clean was first thing in the morning and right before bed. He was always playing outside. Someone gave him a white blanket with white satin binding which
immediately became his favorite, of course. It was always dirty and mostly gray. He would sit in front of the washer and dryer until he could get it back. That blanket and his light colored “beary” bear were constantly with him. Beary now resides with his boys but his blankie was “loved” to shreds.

When Ryan began skiing he refused to go to lessons. He spent his first 2 years on the slopes skiing between my legs. Then, one day, he decided to go on his own and took off parallel skiing. He became one of the best bump skiers I have ever seen and loved being on the mountain with the Jr. Ski Patrol in Winter Park.

As an adult, he rafted the Grand Canyon with us twice. The first trip he asked everyone one their opinion on the best way to propose to his wife (aka Sweets). He was very serious about everyone’s opinion and proposed to her after that trip. The 2nd time, he and Sweets both rafted the Canyon with us. I am pretty sure there were a few times Sweets thought she might meet her demise on the trip but she was a trooper and celebrated her birthday on the river.

Once Ryan’s disease progressed, he needed a service dog (aka SD). He became aware of SD but the training for Ryan and SD required weekly trips to Silverthorne. Ryan and I made these weekly trips for months. We loved the time we spent driving up the mountain, having lunch and training with his trainer and his pupper. Later, we drove up to work with the Humane Society in Summit County, showing grade school kids “working” dogs. Ryan loved doing this.

In his last days he asked Colleen, his Godmother, for chili rellenos. She ordered them from the Brewery Bar. We told him we would pick them up at 11 and be there by 12:30. At noon, my cell phone rang wondering where we were. He thought we would be there at 11 and had been impatiently waiting. Once there, we brought him a chili relleno, a beef burrito and green chili. He then wanted to know where his margarita was. So, we made him a margarita.

One of his last requests was for a queen bed on the outdoor deck. He requested it on Thursday morning. By 1:00 in the afternoon, the family had rallied and Ryan had a place to rest outside. Ryan was in it in no time and loved being back outdoors again. He passed on the outdoor mattress with a light breeze blowing over him.

During his whole illness, he never lost his sense of humor, his love for Jen and their boys, his family, his service dog, and his love of Chex Mix.

Ryan was a brave, loyal, loving son, brother, husband and dad. His boys and his wife were his greatest joys. He loved hero and super hero movies like Star Wars, Superman, The Avenger and James Bond movies. But Ryan was our superhero. Please honor Ryan by being your own kind of superhero, the best self you can be. Live life to its fullest, love, travel and work to fulfill your dreams. His spirit lives on with us.

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Don’t You Forget About Me

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I giggle as I write this post.

Because Ryan was not the rebel above, or maybe towards the end he was 🙂

I had the amazing honor to spend the last couple months of Ryan’s life right next door. I would come over in the morning and we would make coffee. In the evenings, he would sit at the counter while I made dinner. He would advise, I would cook.

We listened to music while we fixed dinner and I discovered that U2 was his favorite band. How did I not know, after 51 years, that we were both fans of Bono?

What you learn when you need to learn.

I would stream the Pandora U2 channel (I know, so old school) and other 80’s songs would come up. I was sautéing chicken when Simple Minds, ‘Don’t You Forget About Me’ started playing.

I turned it up.

“Ryan, this is yours.” I said, “Don’t you forget about me! How could we ever?”

The song continued……..As you walk on by, will you call my name?”

If you are GenX, you know this song, we were this song.

Ryan’s speech was a little rocky at this point but there was one part he could definitely sing….and so I picked up a cucumber designated for the salad and we both sang together….

I sing, “La, la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la
La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la
La-la-la-la, la-la-la-la
La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la
La-la-la-la, la-la-la-la
La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la”

Our cucumber microphone ended up in the salad. I added a couple tears to the dressing, just for taste.

We could never forget about you.

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Final Words to my Brother

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For those who missed it- here are my words from Ryan’s service:

A couple of weeks ago, I was having breakfast with my nephew, Beck. We were just chatting about life when he asked me what my first childhood memory was. Without hesitation, I told him, “It was the day my parents brought my baby brother — your dad — home from the hospital.”

It sounds like a sweet, endearing memory. It wasn’t.

It was Christmas Eve. And I had asked Santa for a sister.

Instead, I was introduced to this tiny, swaddled little bean —
a brother — laying on my parents’ bed.

I was told to be quiet.
I was told to be gentle.
Don’t hit the baby.

And I remember thinking…
I had been sold a bill of goods.

But I was wrong.

Ryan and I became fast friends, despite a few minor annoyances.

Baby Ryan loved books.
Loved them.
Devoured them.

My Pokey the Little Puppy book still has tiny gummy teeth marks along the cover
where my teething brother found a little relief.

Ryan was a little late to speak.

On one trip to the pediatrician, my mom shared her concerns,
while I confidently told the doctor:
Ryan’s favorite color,
his favorite bedtime story,
and what flavor lollipop he would want after his shots.

The doctor smiled and told my mom she had nothing to worry about —
Ryan just had an overzealous, chatty older sister.

And then one day,
he started speaking in complete sentences.

That was Ryan.

He observed.

He waited.

He watched the world carefully.

And then — when he was ready —he acted.

And once he acted, he was unstoppable.

Ryan skied beginner runs… and then suddenly, moguls.

One day he couldn’t ride a bike,and the next day he just got on and rode.
No help.
No hesitation.
Just rode.

At ten, after trying soccer, baseball, and basketball, he found football.

And when he found football, he found himself.

Ryan bloomed into a strong, gifted athlete.

Watching Ryan grow into who he was meant to be
was like watching a sunrise —slow at first, peeking over the horizon,and then brighter,
and bigger, impossible to ignore, illuminating the landscape and bringing the day.

It was fun to be a sister to the sun.

Shooing off friends who had a slightly inappropriate crush on my brother…

Skiing with the guy everyone watched and cheered from the chairlift…

And seeing this once-shy, book-eating kiddo become a kind, confident, strong young man.

We were watching home movies the other day.

Young Ryan was dashing, and the memories were bittersweet.

His caregiver remarked that it was great to see Ryan in his first body.

Ryan’s first body.

If you knew him in his first body, it’s easy to say…

I wish you knew Ryan when…

When he hiked the Wind River Valley.

When he rafted the Grand Canyon.

When he traveled the world with his beloved wife.

When…
When…
When.

But if you knew Ryan —no matter his first or second body —

If you knew Ryan, you knew Ryan.

You knew the athletic man in different ways.

A man so strong that even when he couldn’t feel his feet
and his quads weren’t firing, he insisted on walking.

He walked with a teeter, a pirouette,
a couple pivots…navigating the space,
staying upright when his entire body was telling him to fall.

He kept walking.

If you knew Ryan, you knew the man who summited Wheeler Mountain
just this last summer, 13,000 feet in elevation, one step in front of the other,
surrounded and supported by a devoted group of friends and family.

If you knew Ryan, you witnessed the coordinated dance of a father with a baby in a Bjorn,
restraining a toddler from a flight of stairs, and folding laundry, all while fixing dinner.

If you knew Ryan, you placed your hand in his and felt that familiar, crushing grip…a strong man who could not feel his hands but just wanted to know your hand was in his.

He looked you right in the eyes and told you thank you.

Never mind that he was seeing double or triple vision.
Never mind the pause as he coordinated the words between a tongue that no longer communicated properly with his brain… He held your hand and he thanked you.

Ryan may have had a first body and a second body, but we all only knew one Ryan.

Strong.
Determined.
Funny.
Kind.
Fiercely brave.

In trying to write these words about my brother, I asked,
What is the purpose of a memorial service?
Why are we here today,
in this sacred space,
to honor this amazing human?

A lot of answers came back.

But one word stuck with me; Transcendence.

Going beyond the ordinary.
Surpassing limitations.

And if anyone knew how to do that, it was Ryan.

Ryan spent his whole life going beyond expectations…
beyond limitations…
beyond what his body told him he could or couldn’t do.

Whether climbing mountains, raising his boys,
or simply insisting on standing
when standing was hard ,  Ryan kept going.

And that hasn’t stopped.

Because the very best parts of someone. don’t stay behind.

They move forward.

They live on:
in the people they loved, the family they built,
and the community they shaped.

And that brings us back to why we’re really here today.

We’re here for each other.

For Jen —who lost her husband, her person.

Reach out.
Take her for margaritas.
Sit with her.
Text her.

If she doesn’t answer, try again.

Tell her you love her.
Make it awkward.

Call me if you need recommendations.
I’m a pro at awkward.

To my beautiful nephews —you move forward carrying the best parts of my brother:

grit,
resilience,
strength,
and kindness.

And to the village Ryan built:

Throw the ball.
Share the stories.
Offer the advice.
Fix the bike.

Help with the math…because again…so. not. my. lane.

And to my brother.  I will miss you forever.

I’ll probably still call on you for advice every once in a while…like how to navigate being the only living child to four parents.

Seriously… don’t stay silent on that one.

And how to be kind.

How to be brave.

And how to face life’s biggest challenges head-on with beauty, grace, and humor.

I love you, my brother.

And we will carry you forward.

Godspeed.

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I’m Still Standing- And it’s Rare Disease Day

On By HschichieIn blogLeave a comment

Today is Rare Disease Day. The marking of this disease feels particularly stabby as we reel from the loss of our dear Ryan; Husband, Father, Son, Brother, Cousin, Nephew, Friend.

It has been a while since I posted. The last four months have been fully committed to my brother and his family and I don’t regret a second of that time.

Life is short and precious. If you have the gift of knowing your time with someone is limited, embrace every single moment, double, triple embrace it.

As we move forward, I will write more about these precious months. Thank you, dear tribe, for giving me the grace to disappear- the notes, the texts, soup, flowers and love. Ya’ll are the best.