Our lifestyles haven't changed. Just our lives.

We joke about having late-onset ADD. There are plenty of days I can't tell you what day it is. I can't remember my phone number. If you stopped me on the street and asked me, 'How old are you?' I couldn't tell you.

The grief sometimes gets so heavy that it's physically hard to breathe. The wound never heals. Little things -- like hearing a certain song on the radio -- just rip the scab right off.

It still takes you by surprise. Some days you can't get out of bed. It's a down like you can't even begin to describe.

The place still smells like an old locker room. I go in there every once in a while just to breathe it in. Believe it or not, it smells pretty good to me.

There was very little left. It's bad enough losing your kids, but our kids were burned beyond recognition. There were no open caskets. There were no bodies to say goodbye to.