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Terry and Martin, Father and a Son

Fond Memories and My Father

When I was very young, maybe three or four, my father and a close friend of his had a weekly tradition on Sunday mornings. It was a simple ritual of coffee and chit chat, and halfway through my father would make omelets for them to enjoy over their conversation. I remember wanting nothing more than to just sit at the table with them and participate. Even though I didn’t understand what they were talking about and didn’t have anything to share, I still wanted to take part. If I was quiet and not too fidgety, my father would let me stay, and when it was time for the omelets, he would make one for me too. The omelets, like the meetings, were simple, but they were exquisite.


Perhaps as a result of my participation in these little meetings, my father decided to start a new tradition. When I was four or so, my father started to write math problems on post-it notes and put them on my bedroom door. Then in the morning when I came downstairs, he would ask me what the answer was. If I had been able to figure it out, he would say, “very good,” and we would enjoy breakfast together. But if I could not answer the problem, we would sit down and do it together before eating. I had no concept then of what he was trying to accomplish with these exercises, but I enjoyed the puzzles and leaps in logic for their own sake, and he enjoyed that I wanted to participate.

When I was six or seven, we started playing chess together. He taught me about the movements of the pieces and the special rule of castling, and showed me firsthand how to perform the four-move checkmate, and also how to defend against it. This became our new tradition over several years, until finally I beat him. Then I started winning more often until, eventually, I won most of our games. I do not love competitive games in general, but I love chess because it is more about the puzzle than about overpowering someone else. My father was never an ungracious winner or a sore loser, and I credit him for my love of the game.

When I was thirteen, my father brought me to New York. Unlike math, chess, or table manners, the lessons in New York were more subtle. They had to do with being aware and making observations and knowing yourself. Who am I? Who do I want to be? What is my place in the world? I learned that these are not questions we may ever necessarily answer, but in asking them we move forward and grow.


I could not be more proud to see his caring nature spread beyond the borders of our family.

In New York I met Lynn, my father’s wife. She changed my life and became part of our family. Together, she and my father coached me through college and graduate school. They helped guide me on my journey to adulthood. When I was twenty five Lynn was diagnosed with aggressive, early onset Alzheimer’s. This news was tragic, for all of us, but in the pandemonium of that diagnosis my father became the rock that we would all hold onto. The caregiver he had learned to be in raising me returned in the care he gave Lynn. Not just in being kind, tender, and patient, but in doing everything he could to find ways to stimulate her mind and help her cope with this incurable disease. 

When he learned about the research on Gamma waves and 40Hz lights, he did not hesitate to introduce it into her daily wellness routine, developing the very first prototype that would later become BEACN40™. When the light actually showed signs of helping, he committed himself to making this technology as widely available as possible—not because he was so eager to start a new business, but because he knows our family is not alone in our struggle against Alzheimer’s and cognitive decline. He knows how painful it is to try to go on living in the wake of such a disease, and how hopeless it seems. And, more than anything else, he wants to share the hope he found with as many people as possible, because he too is a caregiver, and he cares. I could not be more proud to see his caring nature spread beyond the borders of our family.

There is hope—there is light at the end of the tunnel—and it’s shining in my family and we hope in yours now too.