Abstract

We males hide our light under a bushel. The pearl we married and are so very proud of, this lovely light of our lives, is the woman at home we adore while we go about the business of decorating our career. It’s funny that we don’t hide our works from the public, like a candle under a bushel. No, we brag about those. It’s this quiet partner who stands silently by, while we act like she’s a candle that used to light up our life, and doesn’t anymore. My late wife was an unsung researcher who deserves to be my coauthor. She worked with children who were disabled by reason of their behavior around other people. She worked with grown-ups who were disabled by reason of a brain injury. She didn’t have a degree or awards dangling from her CV. But what she brought home to me were insights I could not hope to learn from books or schooling or elaborate experiments that passed IRB and got printed in a journal. She was the light under my bushel, the one who was really meant to shine.