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When the Ramps Found Their Next Home
Yesterday was a good day.
My neighbor is a Vietnam veteran. Neuropathy has slowly been taking its toll on his legs and lower back, and lately he’s been falling more often. While talking with his daughter, who cares for him, she mentioned they wished they had a safer way to get down the front steps.
“Hold on a second,” I said.
I walked across to my garage and brought back the two ramps for Sherri. Within minutes, we had them secured to their front steps. Just like that, they had a safer way for him to get in and out of his home.
It made me think.
It took us nearly a year to realize how much we truly needed those ramps. When you’re caring for someone with an incurable illness, watching them slowly lose their mobility, your mind is consumed by the next appointment, the next medication, the next crisis. Something as seemingly simple as installing a ramp somehow becomes another impossible decision. Which ramp? What angle? How do you secure it? Will it be safe? None of it feels simple when you’re living under constant pressure.
Yesterday, those hard-earned lessons allowed me to help someone else before it was too late. My neighbor gets to use the ramps while he can still walk with assistance, preserving a little more independence and, hopefully, preventing another fall.
I know Sherri loved this.
Even though she’s no longer here, her kindness continues to reach people she’ll never meet. Those ramps once carried her safely home. Now they’re helping a veteran like her father do the same.
Maybe that’s one of the quiet gifts of love. It doesn’t end when a life ends. It simply finds another person who needs it.
Yesterday wasn’t just about a couple of aluminum ramps.
It was another reminder that Sherri is still making the world a little better—through the people she changed, the lessons she taught, and the love she left behind.
A Button, a Lesson 45 Years in the Making
Today I sewed a button back onto my favorite shirt and repaired a split seam in a pillow.
Neither job took very long, but when I finished, I realized I had just used a skill I learned more than 45 years ago as a Boy Scout.
My Scoutmaster, William Lee Kitchel, was a remarkable man. He was a Navy veteran of the Second World War who served aboard a battleship and was wounded during a kamikaze attack. Later, he served again, this time in the Air Force during the Korean War. He was demanding, disciplined, and believed that young men learned responsibility by doing things themselves.
Every Scout in our troop sewed on his own merit badges and patches. There were no shortcuts and no “Mom will do it.” When I earned my first three merit badges, I was handed a needle, thread, and instructions to sew them on myself.
Like so many families, my mother kept a Danish butter cookie tin that contained everything except cookies. Inside were needles, thread, buttons, pins, and years of accumulated sewing supplies. She gave me a needle, some thread, and a T-pin, and I went to work. My first attempts looked terrible, but Mr. Kitchel expected us to do it correctly. He accepted no excuses and suffered no fools. Over time, I became quite good at sewing. He even taught us traditional Seminole patchwork sewing, a skill I never imagined would stay with me for life.
Back then, I thought I was simply learning how to put patches on a Scout uniform.
Today I realized he was teaching something much larger.
The woman who quietly fixed buttons, repaired torn clothes, and mended the little things around our home—my wife, Sherri—is gone now. Today, there was no one to hand my favorite shirt to. So I threaded the needle myself, replaced the missing button, and repaired the pillow.
That shirt is my favorite because of a photograph. It shows Sherri sitting on my lap during one of our vacations, smiling with the biggest, brightest smile. It was probably one of our first selfies. Every time I see that picture, it reminds me of her joy, and it makes me smile too.
As I finished sewing today, I realized that William Lee Kitchel had taught me something without either of us knowing it. He wasn’t just teaching a Boy Scout to sew. He was teaching self-reliance, patience, pride in doing a job well, and the confidence to care for the things—and the people—that matter.
Some lessons don’t reveal their true value until decades later.
Thank you, Mr. Kitchel, for giving me a skill that has lasted a lifetime, and for teaching me something far greater than sewing.
Serendipity
There are moments in life that feel accidental at first glance, but later settle into your heart as something much deeper. Moments where friendship, love, timing, grief, and grace all quietly intersect in a way that cannot simply be explained away as coincidence.
This past week, I took my first trip in four years without the overwhelming dread or guilt of leaving my wife behind. That alone felt strange to me. For years, every decision, every outing, every mile traveled carried the weight of caregiving and concern. Even moments that should have been joyful often carried an undercurrent of worry.
But this trip was different.
I traveled to Charleston to attend the graduation of the son of one of my classmates from our alma mater. It was a wonderful celebration filled with memories, laughter, and the strange realization that time continues to move forward whether we are ready for it or not. I stayed with another longtime classmate who still works at the school, and for a few days, I was surrounded by nearly forty years of friendship and shared history.
The morning after the celebration, I woke early and sat having coffee with my friend’s wife, someone I have also known for nearly four decades. We spoke quietly in that way people do in the early morning, before the world fully wakes up.
She shared how they had recently moved her parents from Maine to live near them in an independent living facility. Her father suffers from Alzheimer’s, and her mother from dementia. We talked about the difficult reality families face when navigating those diseases.
One of the strange truths about Alzheimer’s is that, as horrible as it is, there is often a somewhat defined progression. Dementia, however, can be incredibly broad and unpredictable. Symptoms vary wildly. Behaviors change suddenly. Good days and difficult days arrive without warning. For families who have never walked through it before, it can be exhausting, confusing, heartbreaking, and frustrating all at once.
Even after only a couple of months, I could already see the emotional toll it was taking on her.
She explained how her mother had insisted on hip surgery because she believed it would improve her quality of life, but instead, it had left her nearly immobile.
And immediately, my mind went to Sherri’s scooter.
For months, it had been sitting quietly in Sherri’s office gathering dust. A bright pink mobility scooter that no one else could ever possibly mistake for their own.
Of course it was pink.
Sherri insisted on pink.
Not just any pink scooter either. I had to drive more than one hundred miles to find one because she refused to settle for anything less than the exact shade she wanted to match her love of Lilly Pulitzer colors and style. Then she decorated it herself. She made a Lilly Pulitzer-style cover for the back seat, and because she was so tiny, we even added a piece of pink foam so her feet could comfortably reach the pedal.
That scooter was unmistakably hers.
As my friend’s wife spoke, I realized that the scooter sitting unused in Orlando could suddenly become something meaningful again.
I told her, “I have something that can help.”
It is amazing how easy it is nowadays to move something across the country. There truly is an app for everything. Within a short period of time, I found a kind gentleman willing to transport the scooter from Orlando to Charleston the very next day.
And just like that, Sherri’s little pink scooter was headed north to help another family carrying a burden of love and caregiving.
I sat there afterward thinking about how strange and beautiful life can sometimes be.
What are the odds that I would finally take my first trip away?
What are the odds that this conversation would happen over early morning coffee?
What are the odds that a scooter sitting unused for months would suddenly become exactly what another family needed?
Some people call that coincidence.
I do not.
I believe there are moments of divine intervention woven quietly into our lives. Moments where love continues moving long after someone is gone. Moments where friendship creates opportunities for compassion. Moments where grief transforms into purpose.
Serendipity is a funny thing. It often arrives carrying both sorrow and joy at the same time.
What touched me most was realizing that even now, Sherri is still helping people.
Even now, her kindness, personality, style, stubbornness, humor, and love are still moving through the world in tangible ways. A pink scooter decorated by her own hands is now going to reduce the burden on another daughter caring for her parents.
And honestly, I think that would make Sherri smile.
Life can be unbelievably difficult. Illness, loss, aging, caregiving, and grief all remind us how fragile we really are. But friendship, love, and compassion remind us that none of us were ever meant to carry those burdens alone.
Sometimes the greatest acts of grace are not the massive miracles.
Sometimes they are simply a cup of coffee, an old friendship, a heartfelt conversation, and a pink scooter finding its next purpose exactly when it is needed most.
A Journey to Acceptance: My Eye-Opening Experience with Medical Marijuana
I was born and raised in Miami, Florida — in the middle of chaos and change. The city I grew up in during the 70s and 80s was a powder keg of race riots, refugees, and drugs. Miami was overrun — and that’s putting it kindly. Cocaine, marijuana, and the war on drugs were everywhere.
I never touched any of it. Not once.
It was a badge of honor, a personal vow. My father was a judge, and I took pride in the discipline that kept me away from substances that, to me, represented weakness and failure. I saw alcohol as adult, social, and controlled. Marijuana? That was for the lost.
For most of my life, I never questioned that belief.
But life has a way of testing the walls we build around our certainty.
When my wife’s illness began to take over our nights, sleep became hard. She was in constant pain, and nothing — not the pills, not the prescriptions, not the endless “next options” — brought her relief without a cost. Then one night, she tried a simple gummy. She slept through the night.
That experience made me aware — painfully so — of my own hypocrisy. While she found healing through a plant I had long dismissed, I was numbing myself each night with alcohol — not to enjoy, but to stop feeling, to force sleep. I told myself it was normal, acceptable, even earned. But it wasn’t helping.
It wasn’t until I was helping a client — a veteran — through her VA disability claim that the truth caught up with me. She confided in me about her fear of admitting she used marijuana to manage anxiety and sleep. I told her what I believed: that she shouldn’t be ashamed, that seeking help isn’t weakness, and that medical care, when legal and responsible, is private and protected.
Then it hit me like a mirror.
How could I coach her toward honesty and healing while denying myself the same?
That same day, I called my wife’s physician, scheduled an appointment, and applied for my medical marijuana card. Since then, I take a gummy every night. I sleep. I think more clearly. I drink less. I feel present.
My view has changed completely — not because of politics or persuasion, but because of experience. What I once called weakness, I now see as wisdom. The real weakness was refusing to see past my own judgment.
In Florida, medical marijuana has been lawful since 2016. But for me, it only became personal when life humbled me enough to listen.
The more I experience life, the more I understand that nothing truly changes until we become aware. Awareness brings empathy, and empathy brings wisdom. And wisdom — I’ve learned — is not the privilege of youth, but the product of life lived honestly.
What will my life be like in 3 years?
I dare not answer the question.
That was my first response when someone asked where I see myself in three years. Without hesitation, fear stepped in — not fear of failure, but fear of imagining life beyond now. Beyond her.
Yesterday, my wife finalized her cremation plans. I’ve done this before — for my sister, for my father. Each time, it became a necessary transaction. Paperwork, signatures, polite condolences exchanged over a table that felt too small for the weight in the room. The funeral director came to the house. We completed the forms. She paid for her services. Efficient. Respectful. Businesslike.
It’s best to do this before it happens, they say — so there’s one less thing to cause anxiety and pain.
But is that really true? Or is it that I just didn’t want to do this again?
Because the truth is, no matter how many times I’ve faced loss, I still don’t know how to prepare for it. I can manage logistics, but not emotions. I can sign the papers, but not the permission slip to move forward.
When I think about the future — traveling, my children, my new grandbaby — I feel guilty. There’s a horrible tension between the yearning to be free and the desperate wish for this stage of life to never end. How do you reconcile wanting relief and wanting permanence at the same time?
Maybe that’s what being human really is — living inside the contradiction.
We spend our lives trying to control time, plan for tomorrow, build systems, write goals. But life keeps reminding us it doesn’t belong to us. It moves with or without our consent.
Three years from now, I don’t know where I’ll be. Maybe I’ll be standing somewhere new, lighter but not the same. Maybe I’ll still wake up some mornings expecting to hear her voice. Maybe I’ll finally find a kind of peace in the not-knowing.
Because the truth is, none of us can control life. We can only honor it
Where will I be in 3 years…..
It Takes a Village: The Realities of End-of-Life Care
Yesterday was one of the hardest days yet. My wife, Sherri, whispered that she wished for death. Her pain was unbearable, even through layers of medication. Her bed sore reopened, two abscesses formed in her mouth, and the ache from her brittle bones and unhealed surgical site—after eight surgeries, two wound vacuums, and countless antibiotics—was relentless.
We took her to the dentist, who could do little more than write a referral to an oral surgeon. In that moment, I realized what Sherri already knew: sometimes, the course of care no longer offers a path worth taking. The procedures, the pain, the waiting—none promise comfort or meaningful recovery.
Yet, it takes a village. Her sister, her cousin, and her circle of friends have become our lifeline. Their presence gives her strength. She lights up when they visit, laughs, and feels alive again. But the cost is steep—those moments of joy are followed by hours of exhaustion and pain. Now, every visit, every appointment must be weighed against what it will take from her.
I see couples in the hospital—older than us—one sick, one trying to navigate the maze of care while barely able to support themselves. Too often, they end up alone in nursing homes, fading quietly. I’m grateful I’m still strong enough to help Sherri, even if I know there will be a toll later.
End-of-life care isn’t about heroics or procedures—it’s about presence. It’s about conserving what’s left of the body’s strength and surrounding the spirit with love. The truth is, medical science can extend life, but only community—family, faith, and friendship—can make it worth living.
When Love Meets the Machine
Day eight of what was supposed to be a three-day stay.
That sentence alone tells you everything about the state of modern healthcare.
As the disease progresses, it creates complications. Those complications summon specialists—each skilled, each confident, each siloed. They gather to form what they call a “care team,” but to the family it feels more like a committee meeting in slow motion.
Every decision takes time.
Every delay steals time.
Consensus becomes a currency that the patient can no longer afford to spend.
To them, this is process.
To us, it is life slipping away.
I find myself fighting thoughts I wish I didn’t have—the kind that whisper that the longer they keep her, the more they bill. That every new consult means another code, another line item, another form. I hate thinking that way. But when you’ve seen the system from the inside, you know how profit hides behind protocol.
Now, her body bears the evidence of the wait—bedsores, failed IVs, and pain so sharp it carves through every ounce of composure. Even the specialists with ultrasound guidance can’t find a vein. The solution: another procedure, another trip to the OR for a Hickman line. More anesthesia. More risk. More time.
And through it all, one question hangs in the air like a prayer caught in the static of bureaucracy: Can she just come home?
But to come home requires insurance approval, a signature in a portal, a code entered correctly. Somewhere between the nurse’s station and the insurance carrier, humanity gets lost. They don’t see her tears or hear her moans—they see a “case.” A “chart.” A “treatment plan.” While we watch the clock, waiting for Dilaudid that’s overdue and for someone—anyone—to notice that time is the one thing she doesn’t have.
This is what it feels like when love collides with a machine.
Profits Over Patients: Why the Insurance System is Failing Families
The health insurance industry has mastered one thing above all else: delay. What should be a simple claim submission turns into months of bureaucratic limbo, hidden behind jargon like “not yet built” or “waiting for processing.” These phrases disguise the truth—that while families wait for critical financial support, corporations sit comfortably on record-breaking profits.
We are told to expect 15 business days just for a claim to be reviewed, then another 30 to 60 days for processing. In the meantime, representatives admit that claims often sit in inboxes, unseen, until patients themselves call to shake the system awake. And yet these same companies proudly announce hundreds of millions in net income, raising their performance outlooks. The disconnect could not be starker: efficiency for shareholders, inefficiency for patients.
This is not a matter of capability. If profits can soar, systems can be fixed. More staff can be hired. Processes can be modernized. But the lack of urgency shows where priorities lie. Patients and families are left to wait, wonder, and absorb the financial strain—all while the corporations built to serve them choose margin over mission.
And this isn’t an abstract critique. This is personal. The claim in question was for my wife’s electric wheelchair—a necessity, not a luxury—purchased on June 9th. It cost more than $2,000. I wrote about it on June 23rd in my blog post “In the Blink of an Eye: Grace in the Midst of the Unthinkable”, where I shared how something as simple as mobility could restore dignity in the midst of suffering. Months later, the claim has still not been processed. Letters arrive contradicting what agents say, and the only reason any progress happens is because I chase it down.
For families like mine, these delays aren’t just numbers on a balance sheet. They are nights spent worrying, bills that pile up, and faith that slowly erodes. Representatives on the front line may show compassion, but they are trapped in a system designed to stall. Until the industry prioritizes people over profit, these “micro” frustrations will continue to echo the much larger, systemic failure of our healthcare system.
You can read the June 23rd post here: In the Blink of an Eye: Grace in the Midst of the Unthinkable
The Front Lines of Cancer
Yesterday, we reached acceptance. Not surrender — not quitting — but an understanding: this cancer is incurable. It continues to spread slowly, like a snake coiling itself around its prey.
And yet, in the middle of it all, there is beauty.
Our youngest is in high school now. She wakes up on her own, gets ready, eats breakfast. She is excited about life. She’s playing lacrosse, wants to go to practice, wants to do well in school. It’s such a good time.
The other night, my wife told her that she wanted her to have her wedding ring. Tears came, but then laughter too, as our daughter said it was too small for her finger. Somehow, the moment turned to a joke about making it into a “grill” for our dog with the terrible underbite. This is life and love — sorrow and laughter tangled together.
This weekend, our oldest came home. She’s about to start graduate school after years of working. She asked her mother, “Are you going to die?” My wife, steady as ever, said: “I will — but I don’t intend to do it soon. You need to go to graduate school and live your life. This is your dream. Keep going.” Then she gave her the diamond pendant we had made from her mother’s stone. They cried for hours.
One of our sons is getting married in October and then heading into the military. We already have our plane tickets and hotel. No setbacks. We will be there. We’ve become experts in travel planning and stress mitigation, as Sherri can only manage about two hours of chair time a day. No setbacks — we so want to be there.
And then there’s our granddaughter. Just 18 months old, already going down slides. We watched the video of her laughing all the way, and it filled us with joy.
It is a wonderful time.
That might sound strange to say, but it’s true. In these trying days, every moment of laughter, every milestone, every piece of ordinary life feels even more precious. The weight of suffering sharpens the beauty of joy. And when you know that time is short, you hold tighter to the moments that matter most.
Every morning, I bring her breakfast in bed
Every morning, I bring her breakfast in bed. Whatever she wants—peanut butter on a waffle, an apple, crispy bacon, a bowl of raisin bran, sous ve eggs—I make it. Most days, she’ll stick to the same thing for days, even weeks. It’s a small thing, but it’s the least I can do for all she endures.
She can’t walk anymore. The electric wheelchair gives her about an hour and a half of mobility before the pain forces her to lie down. The cancer has spread to her bones. Yet, somehow, she still smiles. She still refuses to give up.
Breakfast has always been my favorite meal. Now its much more than that, its a check in with a smile still here.
