Another cold February morning brought nothing new. Or, so I remember it. Truth be told, I do not remember much about the morning of February 23, 1978. It was a few weeks beyond my 7th birthday, so clear memories are few and far between. That said, living in Cincinnati, Ohio it is a good bet that it was cold and that my mom had made oatmeal for breakfast. Oatmeal with milk and sugar. Full-fat milk and sugar, not sugar substitute. Those were the simple days.

Mom sent my brother and me off to school with the carpool and the day went forward like any other school day. Until we came home. Memories are a little clearer, but still somewhat hazy. I remember sitting at the kitchen table with my mom and brother Tom. I remember my brother screaming and pounding. And slamming the door at the top of the stairs so hard it dented the wall. And I remember sitting on the edge of my bed wondering whether I was supposed to cry or not.

What I do not remember is the moment that my life changed forever. I do not remember the words used or the sound of my mother’s voice. For the life of me, I cannot remember how my mom told Tom and me that my dad had died that morning.

I did not know that when my mother placed the bowl of oatmeal in front of me that my father had succumbed to cancer. And I will never, ever know how my mom was able to remain composed during one of the worst periods in her life.

What I know is how different that day impacted my brother, who had just turned 13, and how it impacted me. The lesson is that the death of a parent impacts us individually, but that we need each other to move forward. Over the course of the next year I will write about the marathons I am running and the marathon that is life.