Tag Archives: Kathy Anne

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Another tale of loss

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My reluctance to share this latest twist in my life’s journey has buckled under the pressure to reveal a bit about my family to all of you.

I lost my sister to illness not long ago. She was 14 months younger than me. She had suffered terribly for a long time with a list of ailments too long for me to count here. It was a bout with COPD that claimed my sis. Her heart stopped and the medics couldn’t bring her back.

Georgianne died in the house she shared with her husband.

Sis led a complicated life. However, we remained close despite some differences over many issues dating back to our teen years. It’s difficult to explain, except that I knew her my entire life. She was part of my life the moment I became aware of my surroundings as a toddler.

I have been feeling down in the dumps over the past several days. I guess it’s a feeling of mortality that has gripped me.

My parents weren’t allowed to grow old. Dad was 59 when he perished in a boating accident in 1980. Mom was 61 when she succumbed to Alzheimer’s disease four years later. My bride was 71 when she passed from glioblastoma — cancer of the brain. All but one of my parents’ eight siblings have passed away.

We’re going to gather later this week to celebrate Georgianne’s life in a service at a church she and her husband attended in a rural Washington state community. The next day we will gather at a cemetery in Portland to have her remains blessed by an Orthodox priest from the church where my sisters and I were baptized.

I have no particular need to tell you all of this, other than to put it in the open. I have one sister left and I venture to believe we will be drawn even closer than we are already … and that’s really saying something.

Maybe I should declare a bit of regret that I wasn’t always kind to my departed sister. She had this way of getting under my skin with the occasional statement or opinion that exhibited a stunning lack of awareness that others were hurting.

But … she was my sister. I loved her unconditionally. I will miss her for the rest of my life.

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No redeeming value in this loss

Two years have passed since I experienced the worst day of my life and I still am getting the reaction from those intending to offer some semblance of comfort.

I recently explained to someone who inquired about my marital status. “I am a widower,” I responded. “Oh? Tell me what happened,” came the reaction. I told this individual about the glioblastoma that struck Kathy Anne, about the surgery to removed part of the mass in her brain, the rehab, the grand mal seizure and finally the end that came six weeks after the diagnosis.

“At least she didn’t suffer,” the individual said … to which I shot back, “There is nothing positive I can claim from all this.”

To be clear, I am rebuilding my life and the foundation for my new life looks promising. The brevity of my bride’s battle does not lessen the pain that came at the end of her life on Earth.

I have been through all kinds of family tragedy. Dad’s death in September 1980 was sudden and shocking. The last words I said to him were, “I’ll see you Wednesday.” He left on a weekend fishing trip to British Columbia, but then perished when the skipper of the boat he was in crashed into a log jam. Dad died instantly. I got the news and I felt the numbness of the shock consume my body.

Mom died nearly four years later to the day. She suffered from Alzheimer’s disease. We watched her disappear before our eyes over several years, losing cognitive skill bit by agonizing bit. The end came. I was expecting it.

Both instances inflicted enormous pain on our family.

Then came Kathy Anne’s sudden illness and then she was gone.

I never will accept the end of my bride’s life as a “blessing” because she “didn’t suffer.” The pain, although it still twinges, has become something I am able to manage and control.

Life does go on.

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Worst day spawns new life

The worst day of my life befell my family and me two years ago today.

My beloved bride, Kathy Anne, lost her battle with glioblastoma. Fifty-one years with this wonderful woman could not have been more glorious, adventuresome and thrilling as we watched our sons grow into the two finest men you’ll ever know. We also watched our granddaughter come into this world and she, too, is growing into a delightful young lady.

I am not going to dwell, though, on the sorrow. I am going to deal briefly with the journey I have taken on my way out of the darkness.

I took that journey largely on instruction from my bride, who told me that if she were to go first that she wanted me — she insisted on it — to find happiness. Do not wallow in grief, she said. Kathy Anne was a woman of conviction, which told me she meant what she said.

My life is still under reconstruction. I don’t know when I’ll be able to declare that my task is complete. Maybe it’ll never be done completely. Whatever. I am ready for whatever comes my way.

She prepared me well for this kind of journey. For that preparation I will be in her debt forever.

Every single person I have met, or will meet along the rest of this trek will know that I miss her. I just intend to tell the whole world, though, that despite her absence I will live every day as if it’s my final day on this good Earth.

That is my bride’s legacy.

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45 years of tobacco freedom!

It was 45 years ago today that I lit the last cigarette I ever would attempt to smoke … only to snuff it, toss it and turn my back on a nasty habit I had acquired at the tender age of 15.

I was 30 years of age when I quit the habit cold turkey. My bride had been badgering me to do so, in that I had developed a “smoker’s cough.” I was smoking two packs a day, man! I wasn’t feeling well that day, so when I lit the cigarette, I damn near choked on it. My immediate thought in the monent was: What the hell am I doing to myaelf?

I knew the answer. I was killing myself. I was not prepared to die, given that I had a beautiful wife and two young sons who told me they wanted me to part of their lives.

I knew nothing about the cost that the habit would bring to those who still light ’em up today. Cigarettes sell now for about $7 a pack. Multiply that by two and that’s $14  each day going up in flames in my house. Ninety-eight bucks each  week, and $5,096 annually.

Wow! I can think of many more productive and enjoyable ways to spend that kind of dough.

And healthier, too!

As I look back, I believe today that decision — made immediately and acted on with dispatch — was among the smartest acts I have commited in the long life I have been granted.

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Remembering final big move

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Thirty years ago this week, I piled most of my worldly possessions into a 1987 Honda Civic and set out for what would be the final stop on my fun-filled career in print journalism.

I had spent nearly 11 years pursuing my craft in Beaumont, Texas, but then an opportunity presented itself in a community far from the Gulf Coast … but still part of this vast state of ours.

I moved to Amarillo. People have asked me over the years when I moved to the Panhandle, and I have been able to tell them the precise date. I reported for work at the Amarillo Globe-News on Jan. 9, 1995. I departed Beaumont on Jan. 6; it took a while to drive from the swamp to the High Plains.

I made one overnight stop in Fort Worth to see some dear friends before trudging northwest along U.S. 287.

But I got to Amarillo. I would learn later of a quip I adopted and have used many times: It is so flat in the Panhandle that if you stand on your tiptoes, you can see the back of your own head. 

It helps, too, that the region is so barren that there’s little tall timber to block that view.

The point of this brief blog? It’s to highlight the flexibility and adaptability I didn’t realize I possessed when I decided to move from my native Oregon to Texas in 1984.

They used to run a tourism ad that called Texas a “whole other country.” How true it is. Beaumont not only is a lengthy mileage distance from the Panhandle, the Gulf Coast possesses a whole other culture. Whereas the Panhandle prides itself on its cowboy tradition, the Golden Triangle takes pride in its Cajun southern culture. Both places appeal to me greatly.

Life took another huge turn in March 2013 when my granddaughter came into this world. My bride and I set about preparing to move from the Panhandle to the Metroplex. It took a while, but we got here.

I guess I want simply to salute the journey my career enabled me to take. Kathy Anne and I saw much of this country and a good part of world on that trek. Texas gave us the opportunity to live a wonderful life.

We have been blessed beyond all measure. My journey continues.

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Getting old is OK, however …

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Forgive me for reneging a little on a promise I made regarding this new nutrition and weight-management program I have just begun.

I said I wouldn’t bore you with nitty-gritty details I take at every step along the way. I want to share one item with you. So … bear with me.

The Veterans Administration has a program that teaches us how to control our meal intake and change our lifestyle. I have gotten far too heavy for my own liking. My dear bride’s passing from cancer nearly two years ago sent me into an eating frenzy I didn’t realize was occurring in the moment. But it was.

I am working my way out of that former life. I have just started that long journey. I have decided that my older age — I just turned 75 a little while ago — has robbed me of the discipline I was able to employ many years ago.

Once, in my mid-20s, I had gained a lot of weight. I decided to join my wife, who had just given birth to our first son, in a weight-loss program. It worked famously. I peeled off 52 pounds. If I may sound a bit conceited, I was proud of myself.

Those days are long gone. I have put even more weight on this aging body. I need professional help. I sought it out at the VA and the agency has responded by putting me on this program.

I am entering the program with an abundance of confidence, although I cannot yet declare whether it will bear the fruit I seek.

I can declare — therefore I will do so — that I need the help from the VA nutritionist with whom I am working. Just maybe she will keep me focused sufficiently to reach the finish line after completing my stated goal.

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Here’s to a new year, a new outlook

Here is a sample of the chatter I have seen on my social media circle of friends and acquaintances: I don’t remember ever wanting a year to end like this one. Don’t know what 2025 has in store but has to be an improvement.

You and I know what this individual is talking about. If not, I’ll spill the beans: It’s the presidential election and the result it produced.

This person is a former elected official, a friend of mine and someone with whom I share his disdain over the election result. I, too, wish it had gone differently. It went the wrong way. I am dealing with it.

I have been able, though, to compartmentalize events of 2024 and separate them from the events of the previous year. 2023 was the worst year of my life. I lost my dear bride to glioblastoma (cancer of the brain) at the start of the year; then near the end of the year I let my puppy, Toby, go because of the cancer that ravaged him.

I looked forward to 2024 being a far better year than ’23. For me personally, it damn sure was a lot brighter. If you include the presidential election result, why … even the year that is passing into history turned out better than its immediate predecessor.

I was able to travel in ’23 and in ’24. My trek in 2023 took me to both coasts, where Toby and I visited family and dear friends. The 2024 version allowed me to fly twice to Europe. In the spring, I visited beloved friends in Nuremberg, Germany. In September, I boarded another long-haul jetliner and flew to Greece, where I met my cousin and her son; we soaked up some late-summer sun on the island of Naxos in the Aegean Sea.

Not only that, upon my return from Greece, I received another new member of my family: Sabol the Puppy, who needed someone to care for her. We fell in love at first sight. So … there you go! How can it get any better than that?

I am going to rely on the strength of our Constitution to withstand the pressure it will feel from the new government in DC. My faith in the founders’ wisdom is strong. So is my faith in my government to hold fast and steady in the tempest that awaits.

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New year, challenge await

Long ago, I vowed to cease making New Year’s resolutions for reasons you’ll understand … I don’t follow through on them.

So, what the hell is the point?

However, 2025 is going to mark the start of a new journey I intend fully to complete. I wrote on this blog a while ago that I have sought professional help to lose the weight I gained since February 2023. I buried myself in comfort food after losing my dear bride, Kathy Anne, to glioblastoma brain cancer.

I packed on way too many pounds.

I reached out to the Veterans Administration Medical Center where I get my medical care. They have a nutrition program at the Sam Rayburn Clinic in Bonham. On Friday I will engage with a nutritionist to begin a 16-week class on building a better, healthier lifestyle.

The VA calls the program MOVE. I don’t know what MOVE means, although the all-capital-letter identifier suggests it’s an acronym; I’ll ask when I sign in Friday morning.

I used to have sufficient self-discipline to accomplish weight-loss goals by myself. That discipline has vanished. I decided to admit to a lack of self-starting ability. The VA has been most helpful in preparing me for the start of this class.

My weight-loss goal is substantial. I hope to achieve it by the end of 2025. I figure that if I succeed in meeting the MOVE goals during my class period, I’ll reach my target weight according to plan.

I won’t chronicle my progress regularly on this blog. I am taking a moment today to tell my friends and family members — and others who read my messages — that this old man is about to try a new approach to achieving what we all want … to live a long and fruitful life.

I am not yet ready to check out of this Earthly world. Therefore … I’ll see y’all at the end of the road.

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Christmas … time for joy and reflection

Kids, the day is almost here. Santa will take off soon from the Pole and head to every house on Earth with small children inside. Christians will attend Christmas Eve services sometime tonight and we’ll celebrate the birth of a child who we believe would later die to redeem us of our sins.

The hassles, such as they exist, are behind us. The gift-shopping, the crowds, the occasional short temper will give way to what we know will be a happy time.

Me? I long ago swore an oath to never let Christmas consume me. I don’t believe any holiday is worth the hassle of “getting ready” for it. So, I don’t. I haven’t let it bother me for some time.

I am going to sit back and enjoy my family, who I will see later today and again tomorrow. And, yes, we will reflect on the person whose absence still hurts. My bride has been gone for nearly two years. Kathy Anne loved this holiday season. She took great joy in decorating our home.

I will reflect, though, with joy in the 51 years we had as a couple and will take huge pride in the family we produced.

Yes, her absence will hurt. I also refuse to be saddened by it.

This is a time to be happy. I will be among those who will enjoy it.

Merry Christmas.

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Suffering kitty withdrawal

So help me I didn’t see this coming … not ever in a zillion years.

My first full day back to having my Princeton, Texas, dwelling more or less all to myself has been, shall we say, a challenge. Why? Well, because Sabol the Puppy and I are without our two feline friends, Marlowe and Macy.

They have joined their daddy, my son, who this week moved into his new home about six miles south of us in rural Princeton. My son moved in with me in the spring of 2023 after his mother passed away from a savage form of brain cancer. He brought his cats with him.

I gotta tell ya, Marlow and Macy bonded very nicely with their grandpa … aka me. Marlowe and I have grown particularly close. He slept at the end of my bed with me damn near every night. I would move during the night, perhaps disturb him, and he would walk ever-so-softly toward my face, nuzzle me and purr in my ear. This would last a few minutes, then he would return to his spot at my feet and go back to sleep.

Yes, I miss my son. I was glad he came. I have told him he saved my life, sparing me from much of the grief he, his brother, sister-in-law and his niece were all suffering with Kathy Anne’s sudden illness and departure. We powered through it together.

I say that, but damn, I miss the kitties in a way I didn’t expect.

It’s going to take time. I am used to telling both Marlowe and Macy that I love them. I also am going to my grave believing they know what I was telling them.

When they were hungry, they would let me know. First thing in the morning, they were at my door yelling at me, “Hey, we’re hungry, grandpa!”

I say all this knowing that I am not totally alone. I have Sabol. She is a scream! I leave the house for 45 seconds, return and she acts like I’ve been gone for a week. She has a limitless supply of affectionate licks and she doles them out with extreme enthusiasm.

President Truman once said about life in Washington, “If you want a friend, get a dog.” Sabol is my friend for life.

Still, the house just isn’t quite the same.