Walk For Life

In the spring of 2024, my dad was diagnosed with ALS at the age of 85. Just a few months later, we lost him.

For a long time, I didn't really think of my dad as having "died of ALS." He never experienced the years-long progression that so many people with this disease endure. Instead, ALS moved with heartbreaking speed. He quickly lost his ability to speak and swallow, and before we had time to process the diagnosis, he was gone.

Now, two years later, I've come to realize something that somehow got lost in the whirlwind of grief and everyday life: my dad would almost certainly still be with us today if he hadn't developed ALS. 

He took extraordinary care of himself. He valued his health, stayed active, asked questions, sought the best medical care, and believed deeply in doing everything he could to live well. ALS stole years that we should have had together.

So why am I walking now, two years later?

Part of the answer is simple: life with two teenage boys is wonderfully busy. But grief has a way of unfolding in its own time. Sometimes it takes years before the full weight of a loss settles in. 

Unexpectedly, it was a Cubs game that brought everything into focus.

Shortly after my dad was diagnosed, my husband, our boys, and I spent what seemed like the perfect evening at Wrigley Field.  It was one of those magical Chicago evenings—beautiful weather, great baseball, and the joy of simply being together.  In the middle of the night, our landline rang. My mom was calling from the emergency room. My dad had been rushed there after suddenly struggling to breathe.

Two weeks later, after several ups and downs, he passed away.

He died on the last day of school. Summer came and went in a blur, and before we knew it, another busy school year had begun.

This past June, we returned to Wrigley Field to celebrate my 50th birthday. Growing up, my dad and I attended countless Cubs games together. Wrigley had always been a place filled with wonderful memories, but after that night in 2024, it had lost much of its magic. 

I was determined to reclaim it.

I never imagined that a place filled with so many happy memories would also become the place where everything finally came together. When we arrived, I was surprised to learn that the evening's special recognition was for the ALS community.  My birthday, June 2, also happens to be Major League Baseball's annual Lou Gehrig Day.   On June 2, 1925, Gehrig began his legendary consecutive-games streak, eventually playing 2,130 straight games over nearly 14 seasons. Sixteen years later, on June 2, 1941, he died of ALS. 

Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe it was something more.

That evening, my husband surprised me with a series of birthday messages on the scoreboard. When I looked back at the photos afterward, the message immediately before mine honored a woman living with ALS.

 It felt like my dad was gently nudging me toward something he would have wanted me to do. 

My father believed deeply in education, integrity, and standing up for what was right.

He was a proud lifelong member of the University of Chicago community, beginning as a student at the Laboratory Schools before earning degrees from the College and the Law School. He credited his education with instilling a lifelong love of learning and critical thinking.

Throughout his life, he advocated for causes he believed in.  Whether researching the best medical care for himself and our family, speaking out against injustice, advocating for change within his church, or helping make Chicago a more humane city for animals, he believed that if something mattered, you should do something about it. 

He was also a writer and an orator — a man whose words and intellect defined so much of who he was. Watching someone with such a brilliant mind lose the ability to communicate was one of the cruelest parts of this disease.

In some ways, our family was fortunate. We were spared the years of physical decline that so many individuals and families living with ALS face. I cannot begin to imagine that journey, especially for those diagnosed much younger than my dad.

But I do know this: if my dad had been given more time after his diagnosis, he would have devoted himself to learning about ALS, raising awareness, supporting research, and doing everything he could to help find a cure.

That's who he was.

This walk is his.

I'm walking in his honor, and I'm taking up a cause that I know would have become his own. Every step is for the years our family lost, for those currently living with ALS, for the families walking beside them, and for the hope that one day no family will have to hear this diagnosis.

 If you'd like to support this walk, I would be deeply grateful for your donation to the ALS Walk for Life. If you're local, I'd also love for you to join my team and walk alongside me and my family. Whether you choose to donate, walk with us, or both, you'll be helping fund research, support individuals and families living with ALS, and move one step closer to a world without this devastating disease. 

Thank you for walking beside me—and for helping carry on my dad's legacy