This essay was originally published on December 29, 2025. On February 19, 2026, Eric Dane died. He was 53. In a statement to People, his family said, “He spent his final days surrounded by dear friends, his devoted wife, and his two beautiful daughters, Billie and Georgia, who were the center of his world.”
I was in my closet the day I heard those three letters: ALS. Eric called me from the doctor’s office in San Francisco; he’d flown down to see a neurologist there. His symptoms started maybe a year prior. When we would have a meal with the kids, he’d say things like, “Something’s wrong with my hand.” He was struggling to use his chopsticks, dropping his food. That was when he started seeing doctors. He was initially diagnosed with a few other things, but he had this sinking feeling that it was something more serious. And I was like, “No, it’s not. I promise you it’s not. I can feel this! It’s gonna be okay.”
When he told me that day, he just started weeping, as did I. It didn’t feel real because he was still okay. I was here at home with my youngest daughter — my home, that I share with just the girls, since Eric and I separated in September 2017 — and I’d gone into my closet to take the call, trying to be private. She was saying, “Mommy, what’s wrong? What’s wrong?” I tried telling her, “Honey, nothing. Everything’s fine,” because I couldn’t process it. I didn’t know all the details like I do now, but I knew enough about ALS to know that there wasn’t a cure.
