Dear Dan Dear Friends,

This would have been my fifth letter to Dan, but after a couple of starts I realized that I was repeating what I have written over the last five years. I’m not sure what this means, except that perhaps I’ve said all that I want to say here. If I gave any credence to Kübler-Ross (which I absolutely do not) I suppose this is what “acceptance” would look like.

Instead of focusing on what I have lost, though, I want to focus on what I have, and what I have gained. To do this, let me tell you a story. I’ll preface this by saying much of this happened while I was in a state of shock, so names and faces were sometimes a blur.

Five years ago today, I experienced the worst moment of my life. I was lost, and I had no idea what I was going to do. I came home from the hospital in a daze. A few hours later, something amazing happened. Friends began showing up at my front door, first one, then another, and another, and soon I had a house full of friends. They brought snacks, they brought beverages, they brought frozen food for meals later. It was exactly what I needed, a distraction and a way to keep me from falling into a deep pit of despair. I’m not sure who started that phone chain or who organized what, but I am so, so grateful to all of you.

Two days later, friends collaborated with the Hyatt Regency O’Hare to hold a memorial gathering in Dan’s honor. The Hyatt went above and beyond to accommodate us. Midwest FurFest staffers were invited to join us, as well as all our local friends and extended family. It was an amazing thing to see the O’Hare Ballroom packed with people to remember Dan (or Takaza, as many knew him by). It was so comforting to know how much our community cared and wanted to show that.

Our extended group of friends and family wasn’t just local, though. It took a few months to set things up, but in June 2017 I organized another memorial gathering at a hotel near O’Hare Airport. Almost 150 people came, some local, some flying in from every corner of the country (and Canada!). It was a night for a lot of tears for me and many others, but also laughter and wonderful stories of how Dan touched so many lives. It was also another bit of necessary closure.

Looking back at an awful time in my life, I take comfort knowing that I was surrounded and supported by a remarkable group of friends and family (both found and related). You all kept me going and were there when I needed you. I can only hope that I can be there for you when needed as well.

Thank you.

Dear Dan,

What a crazy year this has been, unlike anything we could have even dreamed of. I’ve been thinking about how we would have dealt with the ever-worsening pandemic. We’d both be working from home, and in each other’s space more often than not. There would have been friction, but we would have worked through it. We faced a lot of adversity together, and that was what made it all bearable: we did it together.

The worst part of the last twelve months has been the isolation. You were always my rock, the one I could lean on when I needed support, and I really could have used that. If not for Nora and Charlie I’d be in a far worse place, but they have helped keep me afloat. You only had Nora’s company for less than a year, and Charlie’s even less than that. Although we both agreed to adopt them when the time came, you had to persuade me each time. In a way, they’re a lasting gift from you, one that I treasure.

It never fails to surprise me that it’s been four years. It feels like a long time, but also like yesterday. Last week I was explaining an issue with the bank and mentioned your passing and it was like stating a fact, neither good nor bad, but something that happened. Time brings some degree of emotional distance, I suppose; not from you, but from the event. I guess it’s a coping mechanism. Our lives were (and continue to be) intertwined, and every day I am reminded of you in a thousand different ways. I smile at the reminders, remembering our time together, more often than I feel the pain of loss, and that’s as it should be.

I love you so much, Dan.

Dear Dan,

Three years ago today. Sometimes it seems far longer than that, sometimes it seems just days ago. I still think about you every day. The worst are the dreams where we are together doing fun or just mundane things. I wake up to remember that will never happen again and it hurts, a lot.

This year I spent two weeks in Alaska volunteering with the Iditarod, just like we had always talked about doing. It was everything we hoped it would be, and more. I am already thinking in terms of what I will do next year, and how to make the trip even better. You’re not surprised, I know. Some things never change.

Charlie and Nora continue to be my emotional anchors at home. They helped get me through the darkest times, and they continue to help keep me smiling. Nora was diagnosed with Addison’s Disease, and while we were trying to figure out what was wrong, I admit that I was scared. I know that I will have to say goodbye to them sometime in the far future, but not yet. Not yet.

I wonder what you would make of the current world situation. You would be practical, I know. We would have worked together to make a plan and be prepared for whatever happened. I’m not as good at making plans by myself, but I try. You helped provide the confidence I needed sometimes. All I can do now is try my best and hope that that is enough.

Life does go on, though. This time of year again reminds me of the wisdom I was told about grief, “It doesn’t get any easier, you just get stronger.” That’s the truth. I probably stand stronger now than I ever have, but I miss having someone to lean on when needed. I continue to be incredibly fortunate to be surrounded by loving family and friends who help more than they can ever know. If nothing else I have learned to treasure every single one of them even more because life is indeed fickle.

I love you Dan, and I miss you so much. I carry you always in my heart.

Tom