Widower Transforms Grief into Joy on Wife's Birthday

A man whose wife Lori passed away nearly five years ago has decided to transform his annual grief into celebration on her Christmas Eve birthday. For years, the memory of her 51st birthday—just weeks after doctors said there was nothing left to do—haunted him.

Lori had lived with a malignant brain tumor for 23 years, defying medical expectations repeatedly. Last year, on what would have been her 55th birthday, he read her diary entry about her 35th birthday, which sparked a flood of joyful memories.

He recalled renewing their wedding vows at a ski resort in 2005, when Lori, recently recovered from brain surgery and radiation, insisted on skiing and attempting new tricks despite her condition. The vivid memory of her wrapping ski poles with plastic flowers and putting Powerpuff Girls stickers on her skis replaced his grief.

This year, he plans to celebrate Christmas Eve as a time of joy, having learned that remembering the good times honors Lori's greatest gift: the lesson to enjoy what he has and look forward to tomorrow rather than lamenting what he has lost.

For nearly five years, the approach of December 24th brought a familiar weight to a man who lost his wife Lori. Her birthday falls on Christmas Eve, and for years, the anniversary of her passing dominated his thoughts. The first year without her was the roughest, with one particular memory dominating his grief.

His most vivid recollection centers on Lori's 51st birthday, which occurred only a few weeks after doctors informed them there was nothing left to do but wait. Lori, however, refused to accept this prognosis. She had already lived with a malignant brain tumor for 23 years, repeatedly defying the timeline medical professionals had established.

On what would become her final birthday, he prepared a three-layer cake filled with strawberries and covered in chocolate ganache. He also made her favorite food—pancakes—and gave her chocolate from her preferred shop. Because her actual engagement ring no longer fit, he presented her with a cubic zirconium engagement ring and a needlepoint kit she could use from her wheelchair.

When she went to sleep that night, he cried. That memory remained stuck in his mind, haunting him each year. For three years after her death, he hoped that on the anniversary of her birthday, a different memory from the 33 birthdays they had celebrated together would surface to bring a smile instead of tears.

The breakthrough came last year on what would have been Lori's 55th birthday. He had been reading her diaries from time to time, pretending he could still talk with her. While reading, he discovered a passage she wrote about her 35th birthday that made him smile.

In that diary entry, Lori described how she had just recovered from yet another brain surgery and radiation treatment. She told her doctors that when the first snowstorm arrived, she would be skiing. It had been 10 years since they married, and as a birthday present, he arranged to invite friends and family to the summit of their favorite ski resort to renew their wedding vows.

The memories began rushing back with vivid clarity. He remembered December 24, 2005, at 6 a.m., with a couple of inches of snow already on the ground and a forecast calling for twelve more inches. The house smelled of last night's fireplace. Lori slept beside him wearing snowman pajama bottoms and a top she affectionately called her "Thug Muppet"—a super-soft, fleece-lined hoodie with neon orange drawstrings.

He hated to wake her, but knew if he didn't give her birthday gifts immediately, they wouldn't have time alone until the next day. She had spent the day before her birthday wrapping her ski poles with plastic flowers—orchids, roses, lilies, and lace. She put Powerpuff Girls stickers on her skis and laid out a little black dress, her standard evening uniform.

When he leaned over and gently kissed Lori on the forehead, telling her it was time to wake up, she asked for five more minutes, claiming it was still dark outside. He whispered, "It's snowing." Lori's eyes lit up immediately. "Will we have time to do a run in the terrain park before the ceremony? I have a new trick I want to try," she asked.

He responded by asking if they could try to avoid her breaking something until after the ceremony. She rolled out of bed, saw the pile of presents on the floor, and immediately started tearing wrapping paper off, leaving a trail of crumpled paper throughout the house while blurting out details about her new trick. "It's better than the one yesterday!" she exclaimed.

The day before, she had jumped off what she called a "small" set of rocks while skiing in the trees. Usually, she followed him in the trees, but she decided he was moving too slowly. She was about 25 yards ahead when he heard "Woo Hoo!" and then she disappeared. He was so focused on figuring out where she went that he barely had time to brace himself before he, too, was in the air.

His arms swung wildly like he was jumping rope in midair, praying he wouldn't face plant. He found Lori giggling, covered from head to toe in snow, with her skis and poles strewn in multiple directions. She looked like a yeti, and her smile was intoxicating. He couldn't help but laugh as she exclaimed, "Did you see that? I was flying." He lied and said it was amazing, admitting he usually couldn't watch when she did these tricks.

To Lori, the risks were just details. After all, she was supposed to be dead already according to the doctors. Now she wanted to launch herself into the air and try a 360° spin before landing. Who was he to tell her no? Diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor shortly before their third anniversary, neither thought they would see their 10th anniversary, let alone her 35th birthday.

Yet there they were, preparing to renew their wedding vows in a blizzard at the summit of a ski resort in front of friends and family, but not before Lori attempted to stick her landing. Now, 20 years have passed since that day. Time passes quickly yet seems to stand still simultaneously. All his memories feel as if they happened yesterday, and he can still hear Lori's voice, giddy with excitement.

He remembers the warmth flowing through his veins as he told her the journey of how each gift came to be, watching her try on or play with every gift as it was removed from the box. Though it was long ago, he has forgotten the stress of figuring out how to get 25 people to the summit of a mountain when none of them ski, finding a justice of the peace willing to perform a ceremony in a snowstorm, and wondering whether it was a good idea given Lori's head hadn't quite healed from surgery.

What matters most is that he no longer cries on Christmas Eve. He expects that this year, for the first time, he will actually be able to celebrate Christmas Eve as a time of joy. He has learned that if he is willing to let himself remember the good times, he might have many more happy days that were once sad. This is Lori's greatest gift to him: a lesson not to lament fate or dwell on what he has lost, but instead to enjoy what he has and look forward to tomorrow.