Happy Birthday, Kris.
They say time heals.
That the pain fades.
But then comes a memory—
a sharp, sudden one—
and it rips right through me again.
Today would’ve been Kris’s 48th birthday.
And like every birthday before, I can still hear him joke as I reminisce:
“Is that a fat joke?”
(Every time I mention his love for food.)
He was more of a doughnut guy than a cake guy—worked out well for me.
But his birthday dessert of choice was always a Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream Cake.
Last year, my mom sent this magical birthday candle. You light it, and it’s supposed to bloom open and sing. Sounds simple, right?
Well, I was struggling to light the thing.
The ice cream cake was teetering from perfectly sliceable to soup.
Kris leaned in, ready to make a wish.
Finally—BOOM—the candle exploded into flames and high-pitched song screeched “Happy Birthday”.
We laughed so hard.
Mostly because the blast almost singed off what little eyebrow Kris had left after chemo.
That was the last time things felt… normal.
A surprise party from our work family followed—filled with food, laughter, and love.
And I can't help but wonder now:
What did he wish for as he blew out that candle?
I’ll answer my own question.
He would’ve wished for more time.
Kris was always grateful.
He knew his time was already extended.
When I met him, he was in remission from brain cancer.
He told me early on there was a chance it could come back.
And when it did… he faced it the way only Kris could.
With courage.
With humor.
With two thumbs up… literally, on the cemetery plot he picked out. (Yes, there’s a photo.)
He made dark jokes. We’d groan, “Kris!”, while laughing anyway.
But I hated when he talked about it returning.
I knew he was trying to prepare me—but it never felt real.
Even as reality started to unfold,
I kept denying it.
I still thought—it won’t happen to us.
And even if I tried to prepare,
you’re never really prepared.
When Kris was re-diagnosed,
something in me shifted.
I started noticing things—being more present.
Looking for beauty.
Finding joy in the smallest moments.
Though I didn’t realize it at first,
I was subconsciously searching for light.
One day on a walk, I found a heart-shaped rock.
It thrilled me.
Later, a feather. A scrap of paper shaped like a heart.
Kris once said to me:
“I love how you get excited when you find beauty in something.”
And so began my growing collection of “trash treasures”—
rocks, feathers, hearts, and tiny things that somehow made me feel seen, not alone.
Even my son made me a heart at school once.
It lives in my special spot with the others.
(I promise I’m not on My Hoarder Life… yet.)
But these little finds?
They help.
Grief is weird.
Some days I cry at grocery store checkouts.
Like, ugly cry.
One day, the cashier said:
“Rotisserie chicken is the best.”
To which I replied,
“Yeah… my husband and I used to love it. He’s dead now.”
Cue tears.
End scene. 🎭
I’ve now cried in four different grocery stores.
I’m running out of options.
I’m considering asking cashiers if they take health insurance.
But I’ve learned to laugh through it.
To write.
To watercolor.
To pray.
To joke.
To cry.
I’m still on a waitlist to see a therapist in person,
but in the meantime, I share.
This blog—this space—
is where I tell the whole story:
the good, the sucky, and the deeply emotional.
I want to talk about what people say when they don’t know what to say.
I want to connect with others who’ve joined this grief club no one ever signs up for.
Because I know I’m not the only one crying in public,
or clinging to feathers and rocks like lifelines.
Through the darkness, I found light.
And that’s where my art lives now.
So if you’re here,
maybe you’ll laugh.
Maybe you’ll cry.
Maybe you’ll find your own heart-shaped rock.
Maybe you’ll paint.
Or hug your person tighter.
Or write your own blog—because why not?
Life is short.
Happy Birthday, Kris.
Thank you for being my inspiration.
For teaching me how to live, love, and keep laughing—
even through the fire-breathing birthday candles.
I miss you.
xo,
Dani