CARTHAGE, N.C. — Nearly six months past the worst day of my life and I found myself a little while ago shedding tears over that event.

Tears actually flowed down my cheeks.

I am visiting my cousin in this gorgeous community not far from Raleigh, part of what they call the Research Triangle. We have been chatting about this and that, about triumph and tragedy.

The conversation turned, of course, to Kathy Anne and her brave but brief battle with brain cancer.

I had to collect myself while sharing the sequence of events with my cousin. It was too hard to keep going. She understands completely, as she, too, has undergone much in her life.

It occurred to me as I spoke with her that these bouts of emotion will never go away completely. My cousin gets it. She has told me of the passing of a dear friend of hers who unbeknownst to anyone close to him knew of the condition that eventually took him. Yet he didn’t divulge it … to a single soul.

I intend to keep writing about this journey I’m on, if only to give myself some relief from the pain that still hurts. I also hope to convey a bit of knowledge to others who are going through similar — if not identical — feelings of profound loss.

I find that it hurts far less to write about it than it is to talk about it. That realization came forth to me today as I retold the events leading up to Kathy Anne’s passing to my cousin. Therefore, I will continue to tell my story through this blog.

To those who can glean some benefit from it, I express my appreciation in advance. If you are turned off by it, or are bored, or think of me as being too self-pitying … too bad.

There will be an end to it. Someday.

johnkanelis_92@hotmail.com

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