267 Days

Callie Shaw
March 19th, 2026

“They found a mass in his brain.”

Those seven words hung in the air for what felt like forever - meeting me with silence, stomachache, and heartbreak. I knew what it meant then. And 267 days later, I know what it means now. ‍

For all my life, I’ve known his familiar hand resting on my shoulder, the sound of Jane Pauley’s voice on Sunday mornings, the questions he posed at dinner for each person to go around the table and answer. For all my life, I’ve sat on the black bench in between my sisters - him at the head of the table.

267 days ago, my Uncle Patrick was diagnosed with glioblastoma. The diagnosis was terminal - and in an instant, the life I’ve always known no longer moved the way it once had. Glioblastoma is what my mom likes to call “one of the last frontiers” of cancer - to this day, no cure has been found. When you get that call, you have no choice but to accept that this will be what takes the person you love so much. It’s a strange exercise in acceptance - acceptance of the unavoidable final chapter, but still a choice in how to live in the in-between.

Understanding that my Uncle Patrick will never have the opportunity to “beat” this disease has taught me a lot about how to accept the things in life we can’t control - but more importantly, it’s taught me how to live in the meantime, amidst seasons we have no real say in. ‍

267 days ago, we chose love. We chose dinner parties, beach outings, travel, puppet shows, pink tuesdays, word searches, crowded tables. We chose to accept the cards dealt to us - but reject the temptation to live small because of them. ‍

The sadness is inescapable when you are face-to-face with losing one of the most important people in your life - your pseudo-dad, your trusted advice giver, your biggest fan and steadfast advocate. But what I’ve come to realize is that, somehow, I can’t seem to escape the gratitude either.

Because on that Wednesday morning back in June, we didn’t know we would get 267 more days.

‍Days that were spent watercolor painting in Lake Como, playing fishbowl in the living room, welcoming people from near and far just to be close to him. Days that were good, heavy, quiet, scary.

But they were days - days we are still getting with him.

And that is a gift.

I have an unshakeable belief that I am the luckiest girl in the world to have been loved by him, raised by him, taught by him. Sadness is big, but gratitude is bigger. Love, joy, luck, faith - they are bigger. No one can take that away from you.

This weekend, we are walking not only in honor of my incredible Uncle Patrick, but in honor of all those who have received that phone call and sat in the painful process of acceptance. I am walking for Uncle Patrick, for my Aunt Mimi, for my best friends, Claire and Louise.

I am also walking for my Uncle Preston, whose own battle with glioblastoma seven years ago taught me that when life deals you a shitty hand, the most powerful thing you can do is look it in the eyes and ask, "Why not me?"

Why not me - someone who has been surrounded by unconditional, loud love my whole life. Someone who has always had warm hugs and full rooms to come home to. I am capable of carrying great loss with great kindness - so why not me?

The Head For The Cure Foundation is committed to defeating brain cancer, one step at a time. All proceeds raised will directly support ongoing research at the Hoag Family Cancer Institute, where my Uncle Patrick is currently undergoing treatment and where we are continuing to fight alongside him. Given the limitations of current treatment, GBM patients and families like ours are holding onto the hope that this research will lead to a breakthrough. Every dollar is a step toward a future where a cure for this devastating disease is possible. My family and I would be so grateful to have you join our team - whether by walking alongside us or supporting from afar - as we come together to celebrate the incredible love that exists within these stories and work toward a world where a cure can be found. If you would like to support, you can contribute to our team here: https://impact.headforthecure.org/team/797858.

One day, I know we will sit in the sun and things won't feel so heavy.

For now, I choose to be grateful for the weight - because it is a reminder of the impossibly magical experience of being loved by someone like him.

How lucky am I.