Small Things

Tiny moment, big feelings.

Heather Rose-Chase

15 Jan 2026 — 6 min read

But does your sweetie make sure you’re stocked up on Serbian toothpaste?

Michael proposed to me the day before leaving on a six month tour across America to promote Disney’s latest animated film. If he were here, he’d tell you he asked me to marry him right then because he was worried I wouldn’t be around when he got back. Considering we’d only known each other for four months, he was probably right. It set a precedence for our relationship — I knew right from the beginning that we’d end up spending quite a bit of time in different geographical locations.

For the first four years of our marriage, we spent more time apart than together. And even then for the rare months we were in the same town, sleeping in the same bed, we had schedules that didn’t align very well. I worked early mornings at the Disneyland Hotel while he worked late nights on a show at Disneyland, before starting to build a whole new Disney Park in Japan. In our fifth year of marriage we switched from Michael taking international business trips without me and our newborn son, to relocating as a family to Tokyo. (An awesome experience by the way, would do it all over if I could.)

Once we returned to America, Michael’s unique skills and willingness to work abroad kept him catching flights to Canada, Taiwan, and Hong Kong. By then we’d had our second son, and the time apart grew extra difficult for all of us. Michael was a hands-on Dad who actively engaged with his kids and managed a fair share of parenting duties. The kids figured out very quickly there was a big difference in the way their parents did things, with favor generally leaning toward dad, who would rise early and gently wake them before making scrambled eggs and bacon or pancakes with maple syrup for breakfast. Non-morning-person mom would remind them they knew where the bowls, spoons, cereal, and milk were located and please hurry because I slept through my alarm and we’re going to be late for school.

Whenever Michael was gone, his absence was noted all over the place.

Being a very visual person, a small thing standing out to me at the beginning and end of each day was my lonely single toothbrush in our toothbrush holder meant for two. Somehow it always brought me up short, the knowledge that I was there alone, while Michael and his toothbrush were somewhere else altogether.

In 2005 we started hopping around the globe as a family, first to Hong Kong, then back to Los Angeles, then to Macau followed by Shanghai, and then once again back to Hong Kong where we’ve been for nearly nine years, attaining Permanent Residency (not a passport or citizenship, just right of abode and right to work without a visa). Michael travelled a bit for work in each of those cities and the kids grew up, able to set their own alarms and manage their days without help from either parent. Things like Skype then FaceTime meant Michael and I were just a screen apart, a huge difference from the year 2000 when Michael was traveling to Japan while I was pregnant and international calls were so astronomically expensive that we had to reserve them for emergencies only.

The lonely toothbrush thing kept bugging me though, all the way up until 2018 when I figured out a silly but genius workaround: one toothbrush always stayed home while a second one could stay packed and ready in his toiletry bag. A smart way to stop the jarring visual reminder of any temporary separation.

When Michael was diagnosed with Acute Leukemia and we were told he wouldn’t be coming home from the hospital for at least a month, I went out and bought him a new toothbrush to use at the hospital which could be thrown away before returning home. When he went into the transplant isolation ward, we were advised to get him an ultra-soft toothbrush which could be replaced frequently. He needed something extremely gentle on his gums which would not cause any cut or abrasion, to stop any possibility of infection in his post-transplant, severely immunocompromised state. I went on a mission throughout Hong Kong, buying every brand and style of soft toothbrush until we found one he liked, and then bought them by the dozen, setting an alert on my phone to swap them out on a weekly basis during the 67 days he was there.

In the mid-October week between Michael coming home from the hospital following gallbladder surgery and then going back in again with Shingles, I’d found a new kind of toothbrush to try out. For this one, the handle was ceramic and metal and made to last, while the head could be swapped out frequently with different levels of softness. It seemed like a winner… less waste from having to replace his toothbrushes so frequently and comfortable on his gums. We planned to use up all the others during future hospital visits, keeping this new one at home.

When Michael was released from the Infectious Diseases Isolation Ward after the worst of his Shingles blisters had healed, he was home only three weeks before ending up in the ICU with shortness of breath. Then, of course, he never came home again.

Now our minds are playing all sorts of tricks on us. Michael spent more than 50% of 2025 in the hospital, away from home. So on any given day, we can almost fool ourselves into believing he’s just two MTR stops away at Princess Margaret Hospital, or briefly forget he’s not just seven stops and a taxi ride away at Queen Mary Hospital. The suspension of disbelief is helped along by seeing Michael’s “home toothbrush” right where it’s always been, next to mine.

This week I used the last of the toothpaste in the open tube on the counter.

Not just any toothpaste, but the special toothpaste Michael has been getting for his beloved wife on business trips to Belgrade, Serbia for the last three years. I have a small stockpile of it, because one of his coworkers has continued to go on these monthly trips to Serbia while Michael has been indisposed at home, unable to travel or work in the office. It is a small thing, but one that perfectly illustrates the ridiculous lengths Michael was willing to go to show his love for me… making sure I have a particular kind of toothpaste that isn’t too minty (local Hong Kong brands) or sweet (every American brand) for my palate, but exactly in that Goldilocks region of just right.

After squeezing the very last bit from the open tube, I went to toss it in the trash and then froze. I dropped my toothbrush onto the counter, leaned against the wall, then slid down until I was on the ground, still clutching the used up tube. It hit me so hard, and so unexpectedly: this was the last tube of toothpaste Michael ever used, and now it is all gone.

And then like thunder, another loud thought: he will never again brush his teeth with that toothbrush next to mine in the holder.

I could not stop the tears. It was a small thing, minuscule in fact. But like the first small crack before a pane of glass shatters, I realized the years-long trick of believing Michael had simply stepped out for a minute because his toothbrush is still right here was no longer working. It is not merely a geographical distance separating us. Michael has not simply stepped out for a minute. He will not be coming home.

Eventually the sobbing slowed, then stopped, and I made it back onto my feet, placed the empty toothpaste tube in the trash bin, brushed my teeth, and climbed into bed, alone.

Everything in my life right now feels rushed with urgent deadlines and not enough time to get everything done.

I need to finish planning the memorial, I need to submit yet another round of paperwork for the life insurance, I need to get over to the bank, to the hospital medical record office, to the printer. I have urgent calls to make and documents to sign and scan and fax which need to be done by end of day tomorrow, not to mention the job search which needs to begin shortly so I can pay the rent. But in all of this urgent stuff that needs doing, I have yet to toss Michael’s toothbrush. It’s important for me to take a stand, to allow this one small, silly thing to have its own timeline.

And let’s be real… knowing everything that must be done, do you think I would I actually sit down and take a couple hours to write 1,500 words about something small or inconsequential? Not really. The toothbrush gets to stay for now. Not to trick myself into believing it will be used again by my Sweetest Heart, but to remind me that my Sweetest Heart was the love of my life. I am still living this life, filled with all this love for him, and there is no reason to rush through or diminish any of it.

Michael was no small thing to me, we were all the things to each other. I have the evidence in a drawer filled with toothbrushes I got for him, above another drawer filled with toothpaste he got for me. Silly, perhaps. But not small at all.

More soon.