There are some people who come into your life and leave an impression that never fades. For my wife Kris and me, Tori Geib was one of those people.



We first met Tori years ago at Mad River Mountain, where she worked in the kitchen and I worked security. Over time, she became much more than a friend. I thought of her as a daughter, although she affectionately called me her brother. She was family, regardless of what we called each other.



Tori was a classically-trained chef, an incredibly talented musician, and one of the most genuinely beautiful people I've ever known. She had a singing voice so pure, clear, and smooth that it literally gave me chills.

She also had a wonderful sense of humor.

When chemotherapy caused her hair to fall out, she came to our house to shave her head. Being bald myself, I apparently became the perfect candidate to model all her wigs. We laughed until it hurt.



She loved to cook, and our kitchen was bigger than the one in her apartment, so she frequently borrowed it. One evening, Kris and I came home from work to discover she'd prepared an entire multicourse dinner for us. The highlight? Meatloaf cupcakes, complete with mashed potato icing.

That was Tori. Creative, funny, generous and full of life.



When she was diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer at just 30 years old, she was given only months to live. She lived another five years, and what she accomplished during that time was extraordinary.

She became a tireless advocate for people living with metastatic breast cancer. She worked to change laws, improve access to treatment and funding, appeared on national television, and helped give a voice to people facing the same diagnosis.

She accomplished more in those five years than many of us accomplish in a lifetime.



But one of the most remarkable things about Tori was how much she cared about everyone else.

Knowing her time was limited, she asked Kris to save her hair and place it inside a Build-A-Bear so her beloved dog would have something of her after she was gone. Kris ended up making three bears, each containing Tori's hair and a recording of her beautiful voice saying, "I love you."



And then there was the phone call.

In the middle of the night, our phone rang. It was Tori.

"Tonight's the night. I just wanted to say I love you guys and good-bye."



She was right.

Even in her final hours, she wasn't calling for sympathy. She was thinking about us. She wanted us to have closure, to know how much she loved us, and to have the chance to say good-bye.

That's who Tori was.



Even today, nearly five years later, thinking about her brings tears to my eyes. But just as often, those tears come with a smile. I remember the laughter, the music, the ridiculous wigs, the meatloaf cupcakes, and the extraordinary young woman who became part of our family.



Cancer may have shortened Tori's life, but it never defined who she was.

She was a chef. A musician. An advocate. A friend. Family.

And she was loved.
She still is.