His name was Harry.

He had beautiful brown eyes, a kind soul, and a big heart. He was my husband, my best friend, my biggest supporter, my quick-witted banter buddy. He was smart, funny, and adventurous. He was great with numbers, impressive when it came to remembering directions and other seemingly unimportant information, and a fantastic cook. He didn’t always put his stuff away, he was slightly neurotic, and he could play a mean game of Scrabble.

Tragically, he passed away just months before I turned fifty. Ten years earlier, the day before I turned forty, he was diagnosed with young-onset Parkinson’s disease. Ten years from diagnosis to death. A decade of love, adventure, tragedy, beauty, struggle, resilience, and grace.

Harry and I had been married for five years when he was diagnosed. The diagnosis of a progressive, degenerative neurological disease was an incredible blow. We were shocked, frightened, and angry. We also believed that the universe is full of opportunities and that life is open to what you make of it. We refused to let the incredibly difficult challenge create a negative narrative about our existence together.

One cold, rainy spring day, Harry and I hatched a plan and embarked on an adventure of a lifetime. While we mostly kept Harry’s Parkinson’s diagnosis to ourselves, we always knew it was there, an uninvited guest on our journey. The future was unknown in so many ways, but together, we knew we had the strength, humor, and love to handle whatever came our way with grace. Well, it might be a messy kind of grace, but we were committed to being in it together.

We had no idea that Harry’s symptoms would progress so rapidly, like a summer storm gathering strength over a lake. In a tragic turn of events, we were thrust into a world neither of us had ever had reason to visit. Road trips, hikes, and spontaneous adventures were replaced with hospitals, doctors, therapists, and endless appointments. We evolved as we struggled, strengthened as we bent from the weight we carried.

Writing this memoir was a very cathartic experience. As the words came together on these pages, they helped me untangle a web of complicated feelings. The process gently guided me through layers of grief toward the quiet recognition of my own healing, growth, and emerging self.

I have likened the book-writing process to that of creating a quilt. I had an abundance of fabric pieces to work with (old emails and letters, blog posts, journal entries, etc.), and I did my best to select the most interesting and relevant remnants to include. I trimmed the pieces of fabric with well-used shears and then stitched them together by hand, using a thread of grace that represents my resilient voice. I’ve created a rich, colorful patchwork quilt full of wonderfully mismatched faded squares, snags, and crooked lines.

The beauty of it all is that this is my quilt. This is my story.

Days before Harry died, he said that he knew I would go on and do great things with my life. It’s taken me years to believe that I’d ever be ready to embrace what’s next to come.

Here I am, arms open wide.