Which was followed by a hat for Esther, who subsequently had a special request for a hat for her father:

Then I started work on a hat for myself (which was ignored for nearly two months):

After getting a little tired of the same ol’ thing, I decided to try my hand at stranded knitting:

Upon the completion of that, I began sketching and knitting my own designs:

My wrists are tired but I refuse to stop knitting.

I still remember the feelings of anxiety, helplessness and the urgent need to reach my father’s side as soon as possible when he was admitted to the hospital. He called me from outside the emergency room to let me know he was finally going to see a doctor. It’d been almost a month and a half since he’d first complained about a sore throat and it had now reached the point where he could no longer swallow liquids.

There is no verbal expression that encompasses the magnitude of devastation and disbelief when the doctor explained esophageal adenocarcinoma to us. The mere memory of that moment still makes my chest tighten up in pain to this day. I don’t suspect many people are prepared for one man with a manila folder to walk into the room and change the lives of everyone connected to you in the most unwanted way possible.

My father lived for almost exactly six months after his diagnosis. He went through the usual chemotherapy torture on top of radiation treatments during that period, all the while not even being able to enjoy the simple pleasure of eating food because he could no longer swallow. Jevity poured through a g-tube was his only nourishment.

During the two and a half months I had to return back to Florida to sell my house, he aged thirty years. I spoke to him every week, just as I had done most of my life, but it became increasingly noticeable how tired he had become. By the time I reached Chicago again, he looked like a ninety year-old man. I didn’t recognize him, but I assured my girls that he was indeed their grandpa in every way. Two months later, a visiting hospice nurse warned us that the end was imminent.

I fell asleep on the couch beside his bed with the music of Blue October drowning out the sounds of the oxygen machine, but sat straight up every time he stirred. I wet his lips and the inside of his mouth with little sponges and helped him get the saliva out of his mouth that he could no longer extract on his own. I helped my stepmother change his clothes and bedding, and other things that break my heart to talk about.

The last day was full of dread and morbid anticipation. His movements had become so spasmodic, completely out of his control, and his speech was becoming almost unintelligible. I can’t explain it, but I seemed to be the only person in the room that could completely understand what he was saying or asking for.

Somewhere around 3AM on February 28, 2007, I jumped up at the sound of my father trying to sit up in bed. My stepmother, who had fallen asleep at the other side of his bed, looked at me in panic because we both knew he was no longer able to sit up or walk. I tried to find the button to elevate the head of his bed but there was nothing else we could do.

“Help me, help me, help me!” My father’s last words were begging for us to save him and we could do nothing but hold his hand and weep and tell him that we loved him.

Nothing in my life will ever be as horrifying as watching him take his last breaths and knowing that the man I adored, the man who sat me on his shoulders when I was a little girl, the one who rode every terrifying roller coaster with me, the one whose hug melted me, the grandfather that my daughters adored, the one who always made me feel safe, the man I looked up to my entire life and was there whenever I needed him no matter what hour… was fading completely out of my life. There was no relief that he was no longer in pain when his body finally stopped. There was no answer waiting, no consolation that he had ascended to some other plane of consciousness. His body was there, his hand in mine, and no amount of crying, begging, or waiting was ever going to bring him back. He was 56.

This month will be the third anniversary of his death. For some people, grief lasts a few weeks. For some, it takes a few years. I am perfectly accepting of the reality that this is something I will never get over. In fact, I’d be extremely disappointed in myself if I could.

Ironically, things haven’t slowed down yet. In fact, they’ve picked up considerably and I seem to be busier than ever at every turn. Yet, all it took was a full weekend of coding a recent client’s website to drive the fire back into me. I took advantage of it and less than a week later the site was ready to go.

At least I’m not hiding anymore. Now, let’s see if I remember how to keep writing.

For my 35th birthday, I received an envelope with three pieces of paper. One was a receipt. The other two were printed tickets to the U2 360° concert. That’s right, U2.

Now, to fully understand the magnitude of this gift, it should be explained why I have been a fan of U2 for approximately 16 years. It began with my uncle Michael, my father’s youngest brother. Michael taught me how to make paper airplanes. He taught me how to write my first computer program (10 Print "Hello"). And with a beautiful shiny black vinyl record, he played for me my very first U2 song: Sunday Bloody Sunday.

There were two primary reasons for my initial infatuation with U2. First, my uncle Michael liked them and that meant they were instantly cool because my uncle Michael was the embodiment of all things cool. Secondly, they were Irish, and when you come from a father whose family prides themselves on being 100% Irish, that means a great deal. I’ve been a devoted fan ever since.

And so, after sixteen years of hoping someday I would get to see U2 in person, I finally did.