For months, I’ve stared at the grainy ultrasound on my daughter’s refrigerator. But on July 30, that black and gray image came into focus. Francesca Blanche Coleman arrived, all 8 lbs., 1 oz. of her. The moment I held her in my arms – little pointed chin, rosebud...
Terrible tragedy inevitably raises the question: How could a just God allow bad things to happen to good people? Whether you grew up believing in God, or later opened to the possibility of a higher power, when confronted by loss you are likely to question your faith....
I’m throwing a party for the rebirth of Swimming with Maya. Thanks to the power of networking, it has a new life as a paperback and eBook. But in 2010, the future of my book did not look bright. Capital Books, the independent publisher that issued the hardback in...
Two years after my 19-year-old daughter Maya was killed in a freak accident, I met the recipient of her donated heart: a middle-aged Chilean businessman, his wife, and their two children. My book Swimming with Maya describes that initial meeting and the friendship...
I am blessed by wonderful friends. A number of them are women young enough to be my daughters. Today, I opened my mailbox to find a letter from one of them, Kelli Jones. It was a fan letter, a love letter, a blast of encouragement strong enough to make me vow to write...
It is April 6, the anniversary of Maya’s death in 1992, a day when my internal clock stopped. My daughter is dead. After more than two decades, I am still not used to that. I see Maya as a vibrant 19-year-old. But she would be turning 41 this October. Her grave lies...
Six months after Maya died, I was at a business meeting where a colleague shared her devastation over the death of her dog. All I could think was, “You can replace a dog but I can never replace Maya.” I ran from the room and barely made it back to my desk before I...
Talking about the death of my daughter detonates every parent’s worst fear. “That’s the ultimate loss,” they say. “I can’t even imagine it.” Telling people you are a bereaved parent is like telling them you have cancer. In the early years of grief, I felt like a...
I made raspberry pancakes this morning in honor of my 92-year-old father. Dad has become a will o’ the wisp of himself, gasping for air, his cheeks and eyes sunken, barely able to sip water, drugged to the gills on morphine and Atavan. But when the nurse came in and...
Here's the story of why I named this blog "That's the Way Life Lives." When Maya was five years old we moved to California. In Swimming with Maya, I recount the joys and difficulties of adjusting to life in the Sierra foothills outside of Nevada City. Just six weeks...