To know my dad was to know someone who was insanely positive, all the time. During the occasional ski trip that coincided with rough weather, with snow painfully pelting our frozen faces, my dad would ski up to us with the hugest smile on his face, icicles forming on his mustache, and say “isn’t this GREAT?!” There was nothing that was going to stop him from enjoying a trip he had planned. As we got older, we learned we could that crazy lunatic ski in blizzards alone, opting instead for the comfort of the lodge or motel hot tub.

Dad’s optimism was infectious. Which made it all the more difficult to watch him during the battles with illness. Watching him fall into depression was heartbreaking, because it was so not him. Dad worked so hard to never let the little things get him down; living life to the fullest was simply his highest priority. Mom now wears his Chai – the necklace he wore faithfully every day. It’s such an incredibly fitting symbol for him, and what I’m sure connected him so strongly to Judaism which teaches us to celebrate the here and now. L’Chaim: to life. Even the decision to choose hospice treatment was made with this in mind: because while an alternative might have kept him alive a little longer, it would not have been a life.

We all feel that Dad’s time with us was cut much too short, but no one can deny that he lived an incredible life. He had many specialized hobbies and skills, from guitar playing to bread making, had many close, wonderful friends, ran a successful medical practice, was married 43 years to a woman he essentially fell in love with at first sight, had two beautiful daughters, and had the means and energy to travel the world. Just a little over 3 months ago, as crazy as it sounds, he and Mom were in Hawaii, because they could.

When Dad first began his journey down the disease rabbit hole, he underwent stem cell replacement therapy, and I flew in from the east coast to visit. We were in his hospital room and a doctor was checking in on him. Dad looked down at his belly, which had become bloated from the chemo and said, “I must look terrible.” And my mom, without missing a beat, said “Not to me you don’t.” I’m not sure if my retelling of this translates to you all, but it was such a powerful display of love that I had to leave the room and duck into a hallway to cry. Mom’s steadfast commitment to Dad’s health never wavered- she modified their diet when he was on dialysis and adapted to each and every medical need alongside him. And then, there was the last two months. Mom, what I watched you do to take care of him, especially as it ramped up a couple weeks ago, especially knowing that you were doing all this while watching the love of your life in pain and fading away…it was unreal. There aren’t many people who could have done what you did. You are a rock. You are a superwoman.

And now, we have to move on without him. Although we are sad, we don’t have to be sad for him, because he lived a great life. We’re sad for us, because we no longer have this amazing person in our lives. It’s devastating to think about how he will never know how smart and funny Hannah is and that he’ll miss Lylah become the youngest ever American Ninja Warrior. But in his honor, we can make sure to live our lives to the fullest – continue our education, give back to the community, make a ton of friends, and support those we love in sickness and in health.

And I love that what you offered to our family is what inspired you. It was all your creation and a wonderful set of beautiful pictures and videos that we have to remember that beautiful day in our house! I completely give you full permission to share any photos that you took on that day.