I received a remarkable email message from a reader of this blog who, I hasten to point out, has just endured a tragedy similar to what I have been writing about since February.

The point of this brief blog post is that he has gleaned some knowledge of what I have sought to convey from the messages I have told about my dear bride, Kathy Anne, who I lost to cancer a few months ago.

Here is what he wrote, in part: I have learned since … what you are experiencing is nothing like I suspected the situation you are in and never realizing it would be so very, very difficult.  My wife … has just passed away this last month.  I have discovered I never had enough empathy for others who had lost a spouse.  I always considered it would be similar to losing parents, kinfolks, friends, etc.  I was oh so wrong.  Finding, when you lose someone who you live with and see every day is oh so much harder.  Please know I now understand a bit better what you and others are going thru.  I am there now.”

This message fills me with hope that I have reached others in this manner.

Frankly, I learned something from him as well. I am able to process the intense grief I continue to feel because of all that Kathy Anne and I shared. We were husband and wife for 51 of the 52 years we were together. We went through a lot together. There were many peaks and, yes, a valley or two … or maybe three.

Thus, losing a spouse is, indeed — as my friend tells me — so much more intense than losing a parent.

Kathy Anne and I really liked each other’s company. That affection lasted for the entirety of our marriage. So help me, it just doesn’t get any better than what we had.

I have sought to convey our life together and explain the struggle I am waging to regain my equilibrium.

My friend’s loss saddens me at the most essential level. It also gladdens me to know that he understands our pain. To that end, I will do what I can to continue to convey what I learn on this most difficult journey.

johnkanelis_92@hotmail.com

A single sudden, savage and sad event has thrown me into a form of identity crisis I never gave a moment’s thought until that event arrived more than five months ago.

Feb. 3, the worst day of my life, culminated that evening with the passing of my bride, Kathy Anne, from brain cancer.

We got married when I was not quite 22 and she was not quite 20. I am now 73 years of age, which means for almost our entire adult lives we were identified with each other.

We were husband and wife. We were “together” for 52 years, or to put it another way, we became a couple the moment I planted a kiss for the ages on her two days after she first appeared before me, like a vision.

Now she’s gone. I have difficulty thinking of myself as a “single” man. I cannot quite make that leap. It’s weird. Perhaps others who have experienced similar loss know of what I am speaking. I don’t like using the “w” word to define me; you know what it stands for, yes?

Some young man came to my door a few weeks ago to pitch a solar panel program he wanted to sell me. We chatted for a minute, then he asked, “Are you married?” Believe it or not, I took me about 15 seconds to muster up the ability to say, “No. I am not.”

Identity crises occasionally afflict middle-aged men. We hear occasionally of “mid-life crises.” I didn’t go through one of those back when I was in my 50s. Kathy Anne kept me young … if you get my drift.

Now I am embarking on this unknown trek toward some unidentified destination. I am suffering a new sort of crisis as I soldier on.

I am writing about it only to put it out there. It makes me feel somewhat relieved to be able to share it with others who perhaps understand the feelings being expressed.

It’ll pass … eventually.

johnkanelis_92@hotmail.com

AMARILLO, Texas — I ran into a longtime friend this morning at a local coffee shop.

He and I exchanged greetings. He asked, “What brings you back?” I said I wanted to get away for a couple of days. I asked, “You didn’t hear about my wife?” He said no.

I told him Kathy Anne passed away in February as the result of brain cancer. I told him we got the diagnosis the day after Christmas and she was gone … just like that.

“Well,” he said, “I guess there’s something to be said for going quickly.” I stopped him. “No. There is nothing redeeming about this,” I said. “I cannot find anything about the swiftness of this disease that gives me any comfort.”

He nodded. My friend knew of what I was speaking.

I mean not a shred of disrespect for my friend. I merely want him to know that I remain “shattered” from this loss and try as I might, I cannot find anything yet that relieves me of the pain of losing my bride so damn quickly.

As I have noted already on this blog, the reassembling of my life remains a work in progress. It’s coming along, but it will take a while. My friend understands.

johnkanelis_92@hotmail.com

The thoughts I will express in this brief blog post might seem odd, but they are what is churning in my gut at the moment … so, here goes.

I have discovered a nagging obstacle to my emotional recovery from the tragedy I suffered in February with the loss of my bride, Kathy Anne, to cancer.

It is making decisions without having to consult with her. Others who have trudged along this path likely know of which I speak.

I am able to go anywhere I damn well without having to clear it with my bride of more than 51 years.

Example: I am going to hit the road next week for a quickie trip up yonder to Amarillo. I want to see friends, people I got to know over more than 20 years living in the Texas Panhandle. Prior to her passing, I would have asked Kathy Anne if she wanted to go. She might say “yes,” or maybe not. If the answer was no, well, I likely would have stayed home, too.

Hey, no sweat. I always enjoyed her company, whether it’s on the road or here at home.

These days I am not encumbered by anyone else’s wishes, not that I viewed her wishes a burden or any sort of barrier to me.

Now, though, I am free to pick up and go. I plan to do so again in a few weeks, heading back east for a two-week jaunt to North Carolina, Virginia, West Virginia to see family and dear friends.

It’s all part of that so-called “new normal” I am seeking to discover. It’s there for the taking, I have determined. I just need to accept the reality of this moment.

Weird, man.

johnkanelis_92@hotmail.com

My dearest Kathy Anne …

I thought I’d bang out another short note to you, per the advice of our friends. I thought I needed to tell you that I am having little difficulty looking at pictures of you.

You recall when Dad passed away in September 1980. I went to his office to clear out his desk. His colleagues gave me pictures of him to take with me. I couldn’t look at them. That unreasonable fear of looking at pics of Dad lasted a good while. It faded over time.

My loss of you was far worse than what happened that day more than four decades ago. It is no hyperbole, sweetheart, to tell you that Feb. 3, 2023, was the worst day of my life. My heart shattered into a million pieces. I am still trying to assemble it, but I know that’s an impossible task.

However, I am not suffering the kind of fear I felt at looking at pictures of Dad. I can look at your lovely face and I draw some form of comfort in seeing your buoyant smile.

Indeed, I have a lovely portrait of you hanging on a living room wall next to your angel collection. And, yes, I wish you good night when I turn at the end of the day.

I consider this to be a sort of triumph over the grief I continue to feel as I continue my journey through this dark period.

I also thought you needed to hear it from me.

Make no mistake that I think of you practically every waking minute of every day. I am heartened that I can look at your pictures and think of the moments they were taken and recall them with happiness.

I will miss you forever and then some.

johnkanelis_92@hotmail.com

Retirement was sure to introduce me to many shifts, twists and turns and occasional bumps along the way. I knew it when I commenced that journey with my bride nearly a decade ago.

She opted to retire “early” not long after I left my career behind in August 2012. I would follow suit about three years later.

My lesson, though, about retirement is that one must be prepared for any eventuality. By “any eventuality,” I refer — to no one’s suprise, I am sure — to tragedy.

It crashed into me on Feb. 3 when my bride passed away. I am continuing on my journey, but I am now forced to find that “new normal.” I haven’t found it just yet, but it’s coming a little more sharply into focus with each day.

My friends and family have advised me to “take it one day at a time.” I am following that advice to the letter. I am putzing around my house each day, doing this and that chore.

I run errands. I mow the lawn. I have a laugh or two each day with my son, who has moved in with me.

But this new era of retirement has a different feel — quite obviously — than what Kathy Anne and I had expected when we embarked on this journey together.

Intellectually, though, I knew that it was entirely possible all of this could occur. Still, when my world changed forever the evening of Feb. 3, I wasn’t ready for it. I’ll be candid: This is the worst event ever to fall on me. The good news is that I have my family. They, too, are hurting but we give each other comfort when we need it.

I want to share this latest update with you just to let you know that I am pushing forward. Kathy Anne insisted on it if fate were to place me in this spot.

It has done so. The rest of it is up to me.

johnkanelis_92@hotmail.com