About Dana
In need some ideas to force some joy? Here are some of my favorite ways:
Hiking with my pups in the dunes of Northern Michigan
The sound of breaking a Peppermint Pattie in a half (trust me)
Wiffle ball tournaments
Watching re-runs of The Office for the 700th time
Traveling to off-the-beaten-path destinations (Antarctica, I’m coming for you)
Penguins.
Loud and boisterous get togethers with all my favorite humans (and especially my favorite little humans - my nieces and nephews)
Road trips and road trip playlists
Big, loud, belly laughs
Buying all the books (and sometimes even reading them!)
Surprise mail (like love letters and fan mail - not Brad's student loan bills or tax shit or lawyer fees)
Sunset swims in Lake Michigan (no sharks!) followed by beach bonfires
Underwear dance parties. (Or any kind of dance party. Wearing your clothes is totally acceptable too.)
When I was 28 years old, I started stealing people’s thunder.
This was unusual and completely rude of me, as I was a known people pleaser who liked to put everyone else's needs before my own.
But that’s the thing about a cancer diagnosis. It changes you. And for me - in addition to some really bad hair - it gave me a voice. It gave me the space to share my story. When everyone else was busy getting married and having babies and buying houses, I was fighting to stay healthy. And I openly shared about the dirty details.
Then, when I was 33, my husband, Brad, stole the thunder back with a cancer diagnosis of his own. And always one to one-up me, his diagnosis was a terminal one. And once again, while other millennials were getting promotions and having more babies and getting divorced, we were sharing about our mortality. (Listen to those conversations here.)
I always told Brad I wanted to go first (before our dog, Dune, too). I just wasn’t cut out for grief. I was, as Brad called me, his "little joy maker.” I liked romantic comedies and fast-forwarding through difficult scenes. I liked holidays and festive soirees. I liked impromptu dance parties in grocery stores and elevators and kitchens. Brad planned for our future and I kept our present light and fun. So when Brad died first, I was Pissed with a capital “P." (Actually I was Devastated with a capital “D," but in the early days my grief manifested itself as the easier to express emotion: Anger with a capital “A.")
But like battling my own diagnosis and being a caregiver during Brad’s diagnosis, becoming a 33-year-old widow broke me open. I no longer wanted to be “fine” and I didn’t want anyone else struggling to settle for "fine" either. I was tired of suffering in silence, knowing I wasn’t alone in my pain. There is power to our individual stories - especially our stories of trauma and struggle.
And sometimes finding a glimmer of joy requires a whole lot of effort and help from others. Nice to meet you. I’m here to help.
