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

This prolonged period of mourning I am enduring is teaching me many things, one of which is the unintended cruelty of others.

My dear bride passed away four months ago from a savage form of cancer. I miss Kathy Anne every waking minute of every day. Yes, I have written a lot about that already and I don’t mean to belabor the point, as my grief is getting easier to manage.

What is maddening, though, in the extreme are the phone calls and text messages that keep coming at me from those interested in buying my property in Princeton, Texas.

It’s a modest, but nice home. I am making payments each month, just as we did when we purchased it in early 2019.

OK, I know what’s going on. I had to file some paperwork with the Collin County Clerk’s Office, in its probate department. It’s public record. The word has made its way to the real estate buzzards circling overhead. They want to make me a “cash offer” on the house.

I tell them all essentially same thing. I might hang up on them or tell them, simply, “I am not selling. Goodbye.”

On occasion I might ask the caller, “What prompts you to make this call? Does it have anything to do with my wife’s passing?”

They hang up.

It’s no surprise to anyone, I am sure, that losing a beloved spouse is new to me. I have not traveled down this road before. My sadness is tough to shake, even without the assortment of messages and “outreach” from those seeking to do business with me.

They likely won’t read this blog, but this forum does give me a chance to vent my frustration during this still-difficult time in my life.

So … I just did. Thanks for hearing me out.

johnkanelis_92@hotmail.com