Dream New Dreams

by Jai Pausch

  Tina had slept that first evening; she had stayed at the hotel fighting a migraine while I was out exploring the city. Refreshed and ready for a new adventure, she was shocked by my sadness and disappointment. Over my favorite hot cup of coffee with frothed milk, she helped me laugh off the previous evening and look around at the beauty surrounding us at that very moment. Just in front of us was the main canal with boats going by and the sun beaming down. My spirits lifted as I took in what I had been blind to only hours before. With Tina’s help, I pushed back the veil of sadness that had been covering my eyes and saw the richness that surrounded me. I was determined not to lose this fantastic moment. Picking up my guidebook and sunglasses, I rose from the table ready to enjoy my life as it is now and to stop living in the past.

  The next two days were wonderful. We walked along the pathways, taking in the sights, getting lost, and then finding our way back. We decided to take a gondola ride in the middle of the day when it wouldn’t be such a romantic setting, and as we walked around we surveyed all the gondoliers until we found one who was very handsome and seemed nice. Thanks to Tina’s silly disposition, I laughed so much during the ride that I never once found myself thinking about my loss. Tina also has a lovely voice, so she sang for us. Not a shrinking violet, I piped up a stirring rendition of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” which became a duet and then fell apart as we both collapsed in laughter. The rest of the sightseeing went pretty much the same way, the two of us acting like silly schoolgirls, laughing and taking in as much of Italy as we could, making the most of every moment we had.

  Since our Italian journey, I have taken a couple of other short trips—to Washington, D.C., and to the Caribbean to celebrate Tina’s birthday. During each one, I recharged my batteries and returned home ready to resume my responsibilities. I feel I can give more of myself after doing something for myself. But tennis and travel aren’t the only ways I have found to escape the pressures of my daily life. I’ve also learned to take a little break during the day or in the evening to lose myself in a book. During the flight to Italy, I had started the Twilight series by Stephenie Meyer. Now, I’m not ordinarily a paranormal or romance novel reader, but I downloaded the book after several of my friends told me they had read it and really liked it. I found myself addicted to the story, so much so that I read and reread the novels multiple times. When I had finished reading the first book, I scoured the bookstores in Rome to find the second. Then in Venice, I had to find the third. After I finished the fourth book, I started all over again. And again. When I talked to my counselor about this strange obsession, not understanding why I seemed stuck in this story, she explained that this, too, was an escape for me. Whenever I had free time, especially in the evening when I felt lonely, I could pick up a book and immerse myself in another world. The Twilight series was pure escapism, an easy read without a complex narrative full of characters and plot lines to challenge my already overtaxed brain. I couldn’t handle Marguerite Duras or Virginia Woolf with their complicated storytelling techniques and sentence structures, even though I had been a literature major in college and enjoyed intellectually stimulating novels. I identified with the main characters; the pain Bella felt when she lost the love of her life and the blank pages representing her withdrawal from the world were so very similar to what I was feeling. It was a cathartic experience that made me feel better after having released some of my own emotions in a safe way. After reading for a little while, I could put the book down and return to my life, ready once again to face my world with all its joys and sorrows.

  Though I feared that the magical, extraordinary events we had experienced because of Randy would disappear from our lives after he passed, I came to realize this worry was unfounded. As I took small steps to move forward with my life and create opportunities for myself, I saw that I could make some magic happen too. Slowly I would once again come to believe I had everything I really needed, right here inside me. I wasn’t dependent on someone else for excitement or interesting activities. I had the power to create these elements by myself, for myself.

  Magic: Lost and Found

  WHEN RANDY PRESENTED ME with my birthday cake in front of four hundred people during his last lecture, I knew the moment we were sharing was probably the last amazing act of love my husband would ever show me. How many men would have the forethought to make their wives part of their last opportunity to do the thing they love most? Standing on that stage with him in front of all those people, I was feeling so happy and yet so sad at the same time. I loved Randy so much, and this was just one of the many reasons he was precious to me. And yet I knew he would be gone soon. Not only would the love of my life disappear, but also the amazing Wow! experiences in which he involved the kids and me. Without his spark, our lives would seem dark—or at least that’s what I believed.

  Randy was all about experiencing life with a sense of inquisitiveness, always with a smile on his face. He didn’t care about possessions. Doing things together, spending time with each other—that’s what mattered most to him and to me. We had begun raising Dylan, Logan, and Chloe to value family time and adventures. Without Randy, I didn’t believe we would have any more unique trips, but I found that I simply couldn’t give up on the idea of having cool experiences or time with family members who live out of town.

  Water parks were always high on our list of favorite things to do. We had season passes to Pittsburgh’s Sandcastle Waterpark, where we’d take the children even when they could enjoy only the baby pool and we had to take turns watching two kids while the other zoomed down a water slide. When we were dating, Randy and I had traveled as far as Orlando to experience Disney’s Blizzard Beach, which Randy thought was one of the best water parks. We’d spend hours and hours in the pool, going down the slides, and floating aimlessly down the lazy river. Much to my surprise and consternation, Randy got me to do the 120-foot-high body slide, through which you descend at speeds of 50 to 60 miles per hour and drop twelve stories. Once was enough for me, but Randy did it over and over again, enjoying the thrill each time. Even with the Whipple surgery’s giant scar running down his entire torso, Randy did the high-speed slide at Sandcastle, announcing triumphantly after he reached the bottom that his stitched-up body had held together. He was so full of life that he made even the simple things like a water slide seem magical.

  I wanted to recapture some of the magic I so sorely missed, and I wanted my children to know how exciting life can be. During the 2009 spring break, just six months after Randy had passed away, I took the children to an indoor water park in Williamsburg, Virginia. After talking with friends who had been there with their children, I decided I should be able to keep my children safe; if we got there and I was concerned that the situation wasn’t foolproof for my crew, we could drive the hour back home and try again when my kids were a little older. But I desperately wanted to have fun just as we did when Randy was alive and healthy. I missed that part of my life.

  So I packed our suitcase and buckled them into car seats and booster seats and drove north to Williamsburg. After we had checked into the hotel, the kids and I were excited to get to the pool, so we quickly changed into our bathing suits. I took off my watch and earrings and put them in the hotel room safe just before we left. When we passed through the hotel area into the water park, the awe on my children’s faces was priceless. I knew they had inherited the water-park gene from their father and me. Surveying the scene, we saw at least four different pools, including a kiddy pool, a wave pool, a deep pool for big kids, and a lazy river. In the middle of the pools was an imposing play structure with interactive water guns, water shoots, rope ladders, and body slides. There was even a big inner-tube slide at the far end of the area that we could all do together. Our excitement was palpable, and the children were ready to run off to play. They were like a herd of wild horses, tossing their heads and pawing the ground, ready to bolt.

  I stopped them. We talked about how to be safe and reviewed the Rules, which included staying where
Mommy could see them, no roughhousing, no running, and no peeing in the pool. Happily for me, there were life-preserver vests to fit Logan and Chloe; there were lifeguards in every pool and on the play structure, too. With all these safety features built in, I felt sure they weren’t going to drown even though I couldn’t keep my eyes on each of them every second. Chloe, who was almost three years old, wanted to stay in the baby pool with its little slide and tiny water chutes and shallow water. Logan, four and a half, and Dylan, seven and a half, wanted to be on the play structure or in the wave pool. I compromised by letting the boys cavort on the play structure while Chloe and I were in the baby pool. After a little while, we went together to the wave pool, where Chloe played on the shore and the boys enjoyed jumping in and riding on the waves. To my surprise, Chloe was allowed to ride in the tube with me and the boys. So off we went to slip down the big slide in a huge tube. I was a little nervous, so I put Chloe in my lap and Logan and Dylan on either side of me. Then down, down, down we went, twisting and turning, squeals of delight ringing loudly in the air. We got to the bottom safely with everyone laughing. Even little Chloe enjoyed it. My thoughts instantly turned to Randy and how he would have been thrilled to see how much his children loved the water park. It was a bittersweet moment for me, but I didn’t allow myself to dwell too much on these thoughts. I didn’t want to darken the moment, and honestly, I didn’t have time to indulge my grief. I had to run after the children, who were ready for the next thrill.

  After several hours of playing in the water, we were all exhausted and went back to the room for a nap. The children were hungry when they woke up, so we got ready for dinner and went out to the hotel restaurant. This is the part of vacations I like best—not having to plan or cook a meal. At some point during the dinner—I think it was when I went to pay the bill—I looked at my hand and noticed that my diamond engagement ring was not on my finger! I began to panic, searching through my purse and around the table in case it had fallen off. No such luck! The children could see how upset I was and tried to help me remember when I had seen it last. I couldn’t remember when I had last looked at it because I never took it off. My stomach was doing flips, and my heart was breaking.

  This was the diamond Randy had given me when he proposed marriage on one knee in my grandparents’ house. On our fifth wedding anniversary, he had it reset for me in a bezel setting so I wouldn’t scratch the children with a prong. That ring had never come off my finger before in all the times we had been at a pool, beach, or water park. I never gave a thought to taking it off, since it hadn’t slipped off before. I had moved the ring to my right finger when I started getting eczema on my left ring finger about a month before Randy died. When my skin would flare up red and itchy, I would move my ring to the other hand until it cleared. Lately I’d been wearing it on the right hand. Maybe the right ring finger was slightly smaller. Maybe the ring fit a little more loosely because we’d spent all day in the water. Maybe the ring slipped off while I was speeding down a water slide with Chloe, Logan, and Dylan or while we were all playing in the wave pool together. Regardless of how or when it disappeared, the fact remained: my engagement ring was gone! I was completely devastated and distraught.

  The four of us rushed back to the hotel room, and the children helped me search everywhere. I began to cry when it didn’t turn up. I was so upset, so angry with myself for not taking the ring off and putting it in the safe with my watch. When we didn’t find it in the room, we went to the front desk to inquire if someone had found it and turned it in. The desk clerk made some phone calls, but no ring had been turned in. The employee told me to go see the pool manager in case it had been trapped by one of the filters. So the children and I went back to the water park and talked with the manager, who said she would check the drains and filters that evening after the park closed. I’d have to wait until the next day to see if my ring had been found.

  That night, I was angry at myself and the world. “What more could possibly happen! What more could go wrong?” I asked myself. Here was our first big adventure in which I felt we had reclaimed some joie de vivre. In my mind, I tried to reframe the lost ring in a helpful, positive way. On the one hand, my engagement ring was a physical reminder of our marriage and our life together; no other ring could replace it or represent my husband’s love. After I had calmed down a little, I was able to take a more rational view of the situation. In my heart, I knew the ring was just a thing. It was a sentimental thing, but a thing nonetheless. I hadn’t lost anything of real importance or value. This wasn’t a tragedy in the true sense of the word. No one had drowned, gotten lost, or gotten hurt. Nor would I lose any of the loving memories or the loving feelings I associated with the ring. In fact, losing the ring led me to an epiphany of sorts. Here we were, having a fantastic day at the water park. The kids and I were laughing and sliding and splashing like crazy. We were having one of those wonderful experiences I had been so afraid we’d never have again. I saw that the magic hadn’t gone out of our lives when Randy died. The magic was still with us, inside us. It always had been. I could lose a tangible part of Randy and a symbol of our marriage, but I could never lose the magic we created together. Was I glad I lost my ring? No! But what I had gained in going to the water park was more valuable than any material object. This trip put me one step further along on the road to rebuilding my life.

  Furthermore, if I had to lose that ring, then I thought the water park was a good place for it to rest. I found peace in thinking about that ring lying at the bottom of a pool somewhere. Maybe a good man would find it and give it to the woman he loved and wanted to marry; it would be a symbol of another couple’s love. I hoped in my heart that that couple would experience the kind of love Randy and I had had—a love that I would never stop feeling, with or without a ring on my finger. Even after death has parted us, I still feel it today.

  Since the water park adventure, the children and I have gone on to enjoy many amazing experiences. In the spring of 2009, we were invited by Walt Disney Company CEO Bob Iger to join him in the Magic Kingdom for the dedication of a plaque honoring Randy. Standing in front of the topiaries by the Alice in Wonderland teacup ride, the children cut the ribbon around a leaf-shaped plaque with several quotes from Randy. It read: “Be good at something; it makes you valuable.… Have something to bring to the table because that will make you more welcome.” After studying the plaque for a few minutes, Dylan asked Mr. Iger why Disney had chosen the shape of a leaf; he answered that the leaf symbolized their father’s evergreen legacy, living on forever. What a unique opportunity for Dylan to have a conversation with the chief executive officer of one of the most influential companies in the world! After the ceremony, the children and I enjoyed the park with Randy’s mother, his sister and her family, my brother and his daughter. It was a mini family reunion.

  Later that same year, we were invited to Pittsburgh for the Randy Pausch Memorial Bridge dedication. Once again, the children did the honors at the ribbon-cutting ceremony to open the bridge that connects the Purnell Center for the Arts with the new Gates Center for Computer Science and the Hillman Center for Future-Generation Technologies, the latter two being the new home for computer science at Carnegie Mellon University. Without any trepidation whatsoever, Logan and Chloe spoke into the microphone to thank Carnegie Mellon for honoring their father. Dylan followed his siblings’ example and made a comparison between the bridge lighting up the night and his father alight with life. The children then ran back and forth on the bridge as the seven thousand programmable LED lights created a light show that moved down it. The whole experience was made even more special because Randy’s mother, sister, niece, and nephew were there with us. The next morning we walked over to a great little restaurant and had breakfast together. It reminded me of the times Randy and I would travel to his parents’ house to meet his family and we would spend the weekend together.

  The children have also traveled with me to Washington, D.C., where we participated in a walk to raise
funds and awareness for pancreatic cancer research. Dylan and Logan were invited to give the kickoff address to the crowd of two thousand participants, which included their grandmother, aunt, and cousins. Neither one of them was intimidated to look out into the crowd and speak into the microphone. I was very impressed by their confidence and presence of mind to be able to talk about pancreatic cancer and its impact on them personally.

  The following day, Dylan and I went to Capitol Hill to meet with Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi, Representative Frank Pallone Jr., Senator Mark Warner, Representative Lucille Roybal-Allard, Senator Jim Webb, Representative Rosa DeLauro, and Representative J. Randy Forbes to ask for their support to increase funding for the National Cancer Institute and for pancreatic cancer research in particular. It was an incredible lesson for a child to learn—that as Americans we can go to our elected officials and talk with them about the issues we are concerned about and bring them to our government’s attention. This was government “by the people, for the people,” as Abraham Lincoln so famously put it in his Gettysburg Address. Furthermore, we were a part of a larger community of people affected by pancreatic cancer. Every year over 43,000 people nationwide are diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Over 400 people from forty-nine states came together for this event. Dylan, Logan, and Chloe met other children who had lost a parent, a grandparent, or other loved one to the disease, which helped them see that they are not the only ones who have endured such a tragedy. They also met many people who were survivors, which gave all of us hope that one day more than 6 percent of those diagnosed with pancreatic cancer would be alive five years later. It was an incredible trip and one I hope we are able to repeat in the future.