Every time I look outside and see the first buds of spring on the trees in front of our house, I think of our friend Scott.

Four years ago this month, through tear-filled eyes, I watched the spring breeze blowing through the branches of those very same trees, fresh with blooms. It was quiet—eerily calm—while I sat in our bedroom rocker and nursed my 2-day-old baby girl.

I felt smothered by emotions at the time—elation at the fact that we had just brought home our tiny, healthy baby from the hospital and excitement and eagerness about our new family of five. I remember feeling nervous, scared—actually petrified—at the thought that in just a few days I would be caring for a just-turned 3-year-old, a 19-month old, and a newborn, all day, every day.

But those feelings were in active competition with anger and frustration, and those two evils were barely winning over the sadness and desolation I felt about losing our friend. He just turned 36. He had a 3-year-old. He had an incredible wife who was six months pregnant with their second. He was diagnosed only three weeks before he passed away.

It wasn’t fair. It just was not fair. I could not—and still cannot—wrap my head around the whole situation. But I do know this: For about two months before he got sick, he was acting different—not his usual self, and I wish my husband or I would have said something sooner, maybe pushed him to get checked by the doctor.

Scott was a high school boys’ soccer coach—he and my husband won a Maryland state championship their first year coaching together. Scott coached a younger boys’ club soccer team. He was a talented and adored occupational therapist in Montgomery County Public Schools, and he could light up a room. He was funny, smart and thoughtful. He was an amazing father and a loving husband to his wife. He was my husband’s best friend, and he was always calling to check up on us: Did I need him to stop at the store for anything? Did we want to get together for dinner this weekend? Did I need directions to tonight’s soccer game?

I vividly remember my husband and Scott taking our girls to their first swim classes, their first trick-or-treat nights and their first time sledding. Our girls wore matching Magruder Soccer onsies and we enjoyed many New Year’s parties and crab feasts together. We swam and grilled out together in the summer. We supported each other through easy and difficult times. That’s the way it was supposed to be. Best friends and close families shared these kinds of things. 

Looking back at the times when his phone calls became shorter, the time he forgot why he came to our house in the middle of a Saturday afternoon and when he started sleeping more and complaining of headaches, I wish we would have done more. I wish we wouldn’t have brushed off these changes as a “winter funk” and instead made him make an appointment with the doctor. I wish that we would have called him more, asked him more questions and made sure he was okay. Because that’s probably what he would have done if the tables were turned.

Every March—each year when I notice the buds forming on the tree in front of my house—I feel it’s my reminder to regroup, refocus. 

Have my husband and I been in for our check-ups? Have we seen the dentist? Are we taking time for each other or enough time for our kids? Are we surrounding ourselves with good people, with friends who care, friends who are positive influences on our relationship and our children? Are we remembering that life is short? That every single day counts?

These buds are tiny reminders for us to do little things that we, as adults, need to do but often overlook when there are kiddos running around the house and when babysitters are hard to lock-in.