Double Whammy

Just when we had finally made peace with cancer.
We’d met with all the doctors, talked to people who had been through it, and come up with a solid plan. Over a lovely Italian dinner Saturday night, we finally allowed ourselves to feel good — hopeful, even — about everything.

Then came a devastating blow.

Our dear friend Brett passed away suddenly from a heart attack. Just the night before — Friday — we were having drinks with him on the rooftop, laughing and sharing stories like we always did. By Saturday afternoon, he was gone.

To say he was like family would be an understatement. Brett was at our wedding. He was the Godfather to our son. He celebrated Keith’s 50th with us in Spain. If you knew our family, you knew Brett — the fun uncle. The one who came to every concert, every camping trip. The one who DJ’d our parties and brought light, energy, and joy to every room he entered.

Everyone who knew us knew Brett.

He wasn’t just a friend. He was woven into the fabric of our lives.
He taught the kids how to toss pizza dough, towed Alexa around on sleds and cross-country skis, and carried Callum on his shoulders through the Rockies Stadium. He showed them how to fish, tube, and fly drones during our mountain getaways. When COVID made flying risky, he didn’t hesitate — he drove 12 hours with us to Arizona so we could still take a vacation. He spent holidays with us — Christmases, New Years, Easters, and most recently, Passover.

Brett made everything more fun. He made everything better.

Now, all of those moments — and the ones to come — feel heavier, lonelier.
Cancer suddenly feels manageable, even curable. But this? This is permanent. A hole that can’t be filled.

I can’t imagine the holidays without him.
I can’t imagine going to the mountains without him.
Cutting down a Christmas tree. Throwing a party.
All of it feels unthinkable without Brett.

Our lives have been forever changed.
And it hurts more than words can say.