My brother-in-law, John Goulding, died a year ago today. He was Rob’s older brother, and they shared a room as kids, despite a ten-year age difference. This means my husband was introduced to Led Zeppelin and bongs at a very early age, and that he was once the target for pellet gun shooting when John and his friends were curious about whether or not it would hurt to get shot. It did. But Rob always laughs when he tells the story.

John had Burkitt’s lymphoma, a particularly insidious form of blood cancer. We learned about his diagnosis while we were in Napa for the 2013 Ride to Defeat ALS. We felt helpless, which by then, was not a new feeling for us, but still an unwelcome one. John lived for 8 more weeks. Rob was by his side when he passed away. So were his daughters, his wife and others who loved him.

I couldn’t be there, but I had the privilege of drafting an obituary. An obituary is such an extraordinary concept, a short collection of words expected to distill the essence of an entire life. I did the best I could, but the obit did not mention Zeppelin, pot, or pellet guns, and so it obviously came up short. But it did mention John’s big personality, his contagious laugh, and his love of life. It did mention how much we miss him.

What a shock to get a diagnosis and then have only 8 more weeks of life. None of us had any idea it would happen so quickly. Now I experience this strange cycle of understanding that John is gone. Something reminds me of him, then I remember that he died, and then I have to spend several minutes trying to wrap my head around this bizarre truth. Rob says the same thing happens to him. It’s been happening for a year.

I have plenty of John Goulding stories, and most of them will sound like I’m making fun of him. The time he asked me to explain this “tofu” he’d been hearing about. The time we were in a Naples, Florida restaurant when a server offered vanilla bean creme brûlée and John said, “What does THAT mean?!”

But this was the best part about my brother-in-law. He knew a lot of things. But he didn’t know everything, and he wasn’t afraid to ask and learn more. He put himself through college as an adult, something more of us should maybe do, as we’d probably end up taking it more seriously. He was a smart man, who could fix practically anything, and he always wanted to know more.

One night, when Rob and I lived in New York, John fixed our broken oven OVER THE PHONE. When we bought our new house, we very seriously considered flying him out here to do some of the work on it, work that neither Rob nor I were remotely qualified to do.

John’s illness and death took me out of my own situation for a long time. I had been waking up and thinking about ALS every day. I was consumed by it, and assumed that everyone else was, too. But after John passed away, things weren’t about me and my disease. Our family was mourning a major, shocking loss. I was worried about Rob, and heartbroken for our sister-in-law and nieces. We had to think about how to explain to Scarlett what had happened to her uncle. How to talk about death with her.

Now it’s been a year. One full year. And here comes Thanksgiving. Last year, Rob flew home from his brother’s hospital room in Indiana and we spent a quiet holiday with Scarlett, just reminiscing about John and thinking about all that we were still grateful for. This year, we’ll try to do the same. We miss John terribly, but we know that there is much in life to celebrate. Mainly, the life part. And I think my brother-in-law would agree. That man did know how to party.

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