It started on Friday, December 16, 2016. I didn’t know it at the time, but in hindsight it has become clear. This was the day we started the long process of losing little bits of Kim, saying goodbye, hoping they would return. Things like her voice, her laugh, her wit. All were there till almost the end but eroded. Sometimes in ways that we didn’t even realize at the time. A new normal every day, only to say goodbye to that normal only to embrace the next new normal.
We found out that morning that her mother had passed away. She hadn’t been feeling well but a flu test on Thursday was negative, so we were hoping for a better day on Friday. That didn’t happen. In fact she got worse.
I sat up with her late that Friday night. Unbeknownst to us she was in the early stages of pneumonia. Her blood oxygen levels were probably already low. That night her breathing was labored. I sat up with her until late in the night, that was the beginning of what would become a regular occurrence over the next eight months. We went to the ER the next morning. The rest is history.
Worse became even worse and we set new expectations for “the worst” many times throughout.
The “end” came last Tuesday, August 8th at around 4 in the afternoon. But the end turned into another beginning, another phase in the Long Goodbye. Family viewing, Visitation, Memorial Service, Graveside, Celebration of Life. A long week of goodbyes.
But as Monday morning dawned it became apparent that the goodbyes weren’t over. Indeed I wonder if they will ever be over. We referred to our second date as “The Date That Never Ended.” I’m starting to believe that I have now entered into “The Goodbye That Never Ends.”
She’ll always be with us. But she will also never be with us. So the goodbyes continue each time she pops up in conversation, or a memory jumps into our heads or we find some long lost token of her presence. The house and our lives are full of them. We think of her and then say goodbye all over again.
I know I said I was going to focus on memories past. But through all of this we continue to make memories every single day. Or do things that harken back to a time when things were different. Normal.
The pattern over the past couple of weeks has developed that Esposa will take her nighty night meds around 9 pm and promptly sack. I straighten up the trailer, watch a little TV and what not. Then around 11 or so I start to pack it in. That’s when she wakes up.
So we’ve gotten into a semi-routine of having long chats about random subjects till midnight or after. Those who know me know I’m all about my sleep, but the sweetness of laying in bed with my best friend talking about things; some good, some not so good, some that we could not have even contemplated 8 months ago creates an overwhelming desire for sleep to never come.
Last night she injected a new subject into our nightly chat, mid sentence: ice cream sandwiches. She brought it up and then left it. Ten minutes later she asks me why I let her mention ice cream sandwiches. I reply that if I had know she was about to say “ice cream sandwich” I would have stopped her. We continue. Five minutes later in the middle of a conversation on an unrelated topic she says “We need to talk about something that is completely the opposite of ice cream sandwiches.” Which seemed odd to me because we were talking about the car which is very clearly not an ice cream sandwich.
So I began to get the idea that maybe she wanted an ice cream sandwich. That’s just how perceptive I am. Literally read.her.mind. Call me Kreskin.
And that is how I ended up at 7-11 at midnight buying ice cream sandwiches. We ate them together. Just like so many nights past when we would sneak a bowl of Blue Bell before we went to sleep. We have always been each other’s Midnight Ice Cream Buddy.
In the midst of the storm. A tiny morsel of normalcy is always to be celebrated.
As Esposa and I started spending time together after meeting as described in my last post, we started talking about where we had been and what we had been doing all our lives prior to meeting. We started to notice a strange convergence of coincidentally being in the same place at the same time. Sometimes just in the same city, other times in the same room, without ever meeting.
The conclusion we drew was that God was keeping us apart until we were both ready. I had married while in college, had a couple of kids and was in the process of ending a 10 year marriage. She on the other hand had been living the single life, was a bit wild and unready to settle down. We both were off relationships and had no interest whatsoever in starting a new one. Until we met that is.
The earliest such occurrence was in 1962 during the World’s Fair in Seattle. She was around 3, me around 5 years old. Her family trekked to Seattle to see the sights, go up in the Space Needle and so forth. She recounted riding the ferry across the sound. Well guess where I was in 1962? We lived in Bremerton, just across the sound from Seattle. We rode the ferry frequently and indeed even attended the World’s Fair and went up in the Space Needle. Was it at the same time? Who knows. But it was the first of many odd coincidences that put us potentially in proximity to each other during our lives.
The next such possible crossing of paths was in 1970. As she was discussing her family vacations she described visits to many places that I had been, Yosemite, Yellowstone, etc. but not at the same time. The common thread in all of these vacations was a stop in Las Vegas. Now I had only been to Las Vegas one time. In 1970. Guess who else was there that year? It is doubtful that we were there at the same time. And my visit was cut short because I was sick with Mononucleosis and we couldn’t stay long. Probably saved my parents a ton of money that they didn’t have the opportunity to gamble away.
In 1971 I was in Austin, TX for an ROTC drill competition. I was downtown about two blocks from where her Dad & Grandfather worked. And we toured the Capitol where her mother worked. Years later my mother-in-law pointed to where her office was located. I had walked right past her in 1971. If she had looked up from her desk she might have seen her future son-in-law.
The first time we can actually verify that we were in the same place at the same time took place in October 1978. We both attended the Texas A&M vs. Rice game at Kyle Field. There are no attendance figures that I can find for that game, but this was pre-third deck with a capacity of 48,000. I remember sitting in the upper deck. She doesn’t remember this game specifically but she would likely have been on the first deck in proximity to the Corps of Cadets. A long shot that we would have seen each other or actually met, but we both walked up/down the same set of ramps. Anything is possible. But this is where the “not ready to meet” comes in. At the time, I was a married college drop out with a young son. She was an active college sophomore and an admitted “boot chaser”. At that point in time we were both on a journey in opposite directions. She would never have considered going out with me at that time, even without the inconvenient fact that I was not available.
For the next 10 years I lived in and around the Dallas area. My feet firmly planted on the ground looking up at an endless corporate ladder. She finished her degree at Texas A&M, moved to Houston, then Indiana, then Austin and finally Dallas. The Indiana story is particularly interesting. She was doing a much better job than I at the corporate ladder thing. She was a branch manager for the world’s largest temp service in downtown Houston. In order to move to the next level she had to transfer. She was given the choice of Terre Haut, IN or New London, CT. Given her boot chasing proclivities choosing Connecticut would have put her right in the middle of the US Coast Guard Academy, New London Submarine base and all manner of military types. But for some reason she chose Indiana, a place that she disliked and ended up leaving to come back to Texas. Dodged a bullet there.
Fast forward to 1988. I was a newly single almost divorced guy hitting the bar scene for the first time in over a decade. She was new to town and had gone through a series of go nowhere relationships, hitting the bar scene with her friends. We could have bumped into each other at any number of bars, but one in particular stands out. Near my townhouse was a big country disco/live music bar called Borrowed Money.
“Borrowed Money on a Thursday night almost resembles a country and Western nightclub. It’s a modern-day honky-tonk, the kind where Coors Light easily outsells Lone Star and white hats are replaced by black ones from Labor Day to Easter.
As Straight Tequila Night fades out, the club starts vibrating with enough bass and drums to move a shot glass across a table. I like big butts and I can’t deny, Sir Mix-A-Lot raps on Baby Got Back, and the club’s excitement level shoots up like a bull rider’s adrenaline during those fabled eight seconds. The sonic transition is as loud and jagged as a rock crashing through a plate glass window, but everyone seems at ease with the new groove. Some of the dancers who were just two-stepping are now embroiled in lurid weight shifts and it almost looks like Fire Island, circa, 1976, with all these muscular guys with mustaches and cowboy hats snapping their necks in time to the monster beat.”
Borrowed Money inhabited the entire upstairs of the east wing of Caruth Plaza. As you came out of the stairwell you were on a level with the dance floor to your left and an elevated platform to your right. Up on the platform there were pool tables, a large horseshoe bar and the restrooms. On the dance floor level there was another bar, a stage for live music and tables as far as you could see into the darkness.
I was a denizen of the former. We would come in for the drink specials, play a few games of pool and have a few beers, or shots, or both. The men’s room had an attendant as most “high dime” country disco clubs did back then. For a buck you could slather on as much Drakkar Noir as you could stand. Esposa was a denizen of the latter. She and her friends would grab a table, have as many drinks as they could get the cowboys to buy them and dance.
There must have been dozens of occasions when we were in the club at the same time. But I didn’t want to date someone I met in a bar. Neither did she. That hadn’t worked out well for her and she was still dealing with “Medallion Man” who had bought her a few drinks and showed up at odd times to mow her yard.
But Borrowed Money is where we went on our first real date. To see Eddie Raven play live. It was the date that never ended.
When asked how we met Esposa and I generally answer “On a blind date” which is technically true. But it wasn’t completely blind and wasn’t a “real” date. Allow me to explain. In the fall of 1988 I was sharing a townhouse in Dallas with my old buddy Ralph. An Aggie through & through, Ralph was dating the inscrutable Helen. She was impossibly tall and one of the few who could deal with Ralph’s dalmatian Dot.
One day Ralph called Helen at work and the phone was answered by the “new girl” in the office. When I came home from work he told me “Coach, you need to meet this girl…” (Ralph called me coach for no apparent reason). Of course my superficial question was “what does she look like?” He responded that he didn’t know but that she knew her Aggie football. That was good enough for me, let’s do it. He had Helen set up a meeting between the four of us.
The meeting was set on a glorious fall afternoon not far from the townhouse, at the Taco Cabana on Northwest Highway. Home of the 99 cent margarita. Ralph and I got there first, then Helen. It seems that my “date” was running late. We sat outside in the receding sunshine. She had been on a business trip to the Texas Department of Corrections unit at Tennessee Colony in East Texas. I had to admit that I had never been on a date with someone who just left prison, which elicited laughs from Ralph and groans from Helen.
After a few minutes Helen saw her pull into the parking lot. She drove an immaculate 1984 Olds Cutlass Supreme, champagne in color with the obligatory maroon landau vinyl top.
I watched intently for her to walk around the corner. I had to admit to some curiosity about this football crazy girl. I wasn’t sure what to expect. And then…..
There she was.
She was walking toward us with a million watt smile. Walking into the setting sun. And. She. Was. Fabulous.
Beautifully big North Dallas hair in big loose curls surrounded her face, reflecting the sun back to us. Reflective aviators, khaki shorts, a stunning blue top that managed to be conservative and sexy at the same time. And her smile. We sat and chatted like old friends. All four of us. We went through over $20 worth of 99 cent margaritas, ordered some tacos & nachos. And then we dispersed. All too quickly.
I realized almost immediately that I had neglected to get her phone number. Which as I found out later, pissed her off. I figured no big deal, I would get it from Helen the next day (Friday). So I left a message on her recorder. No call back Friday. Or Saturday. Finally late Sunday afternoon I got the callback and the number.
Apparently my lack of interest (forgetting to ask for a phone number) inspired a trip to Fort Worth’s Pioneer Days in the Stockyards. A three day drinking & dancing binge. They had left after work on Friday and just got home on Sunday. So I decided to wait until Monday to call.
Monday night came and during the football game I decided to call. Not a big game. Just a random mid-season MNF game. Elway & the Broncos vs Raiders. While we were chatting one of the intermittent freight trains came by right outside my back door. I noticed at that point that even with the noise of the train, I could still hear the football game. I asked “are you watching Monday Night Football?” Without hesitation she answered “Always.” Turns out she was a Broncos fan because Gary Kubiak was their backup QB. It would become apparent to me over the years that she always rooted for Aggies in the NFL. Even if they were playing the Cowboys which was a minor irritant. At least until Jerry came along, at which point I quit caring so much. Coincidence? I think not.
So a beautiful woman. Who not only loves football, but likes to watch it on TV. We went out a few days later on our first real date. To see Eddie Raven at Borrowed Money. But that’s another story.
It was Tacos, Football & 99 cent Margaritas that brought us together to make the love that we believed we were destined all our lives to find, a reality.
Boats have been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. Some of my earliest memories of my parents were being at Lake Worth with my Aunt, Uncle and cousins. I remember my Dad water skiing, young & vibrant. Laughing. But Mom & Dad divorced and Mom married a Navy man. We moved to Bremerton, WA, then Southern California, then Guam. We didn’t own a boat during that time, but the beach and local marinas were where I was most happy as a kid. I was thirteen before we came back to Texas to stay.One of the first things my Stepdad did was buy a boat. From 13 to 30 I always lived near or on a lake and I almost always had access to a boat. But never owned one. About 5 years ago I got the bug. Esposa and I were at Cabela’s and ended up sitting on a pontoon boat in the showroom. I had it bad, her not so much. She wasn’t sold on the lake life and while not saying no, she wasn’t an enthusiastic yes either.
So she made me a deal. She had seen an ad for a boat club. Sort of a shared ownership thing. The club owned a bunch of boats and as a member you could reserve any one you wanted. Just pay for the gas. I was reluctant but made what I thought was a great deal. July 4th was coming up and I said if they can get us on the lake on July 4th we’ll join.
If not, we buy one.
They had a boat available, so we joined. It wasn’t bad. A lot of the headaches of ownership were gone. But there was competition for reservations. It wasn’t always possible to get a boat on the weekends. But we worked around it. And the skeptical Esposa was smitten. She loved life on the lake. I’ve never seen her more relaxed than those boat club days just drifting with the wind. Watching awesome sunsets. Enjoying cold beverages. But the boat club got old. People didn’t care for the boats. Something was always broken. Most often it was the depth finder which is a must on a lake in Texas in the summer. So last year we decided to buy one. We looked for months. Even after we found the one we wanted it took some time for us to get the jack together to buy it. On weekends we would go to the boat dealership to “pet the boat”.
Finally the day came. We christened our 24″ Black & Tan tri-toon the “Us Time”. We had a full summer. On the lake whenever we wanted.
In October Esposa and I decided to reprise our 2012 Tuscaloosa road trip to the Bama game. In 2012 Budman was a high school senior exploring college options and the Ags had Johnny Football. Seemed like a great time for a road trip.
This time Budman was a junior at A&M and had his own road trip plans, so we decided to go it solo. In true “grown up” fashion we decided that staying in Meridian, MS made sense. Rooms are scarce in Tuscaloosa and Birmingham is an hour in the wrong direction. Made sense at the time.
We found our parking spot at around 9:00 am and the day drinking began. We had a liter of Tito’s and a six pack of Red Bulls to pour up into our 32 oz. Raceway styrofoam cups for the hike in. That didn’t last long. We connected with the Budman crew, finding their tailgate. In true student fashion there was one tent, one table, 7 or 8 coolers full of alcohol and no food. We hooked them up with some chicken strip dinners from a food truck (it was awesome) and went on our way.
We made the rounds, grabbed some lunch ourselves and visited the bar that wouldn’t let us in after we beat Bama in 2012. Headed into the game and were just beaten down by the time the clock finally ran out on our Ags.
The long walk back to the truck. The long drive back to Meridian.
About an hour in we were flagging. I was watching the mile markers count down to the Mississippi state line. I saw mile marker 40 and was inspired. “I know, Top 40 Countdown. Every mile we talk about a top 40 highlight of our lives together” We alternated. First me, then her.
For that last 40 miles of Alabama we traded our most precious memories over the last 30 odd years since we met. Special loving moments, the kids and on and on for 40 miles.
It was the most special Top 40 ever.
In less than two months her life would change forever. So would mine.
And so that is how the last 40 miles of Alabama east of the Mississippi state line became my Number one memory of all time.
I used to love this blog. Then it got to be like a job. I was trying to force things to post about. I stressed over it. So I quit. Tried to come back last year, couldn’t quite pull it off. But life is a funny thing. Just when you think you have nothing more to say something happens and you realize there were a ton of things to say, stories to tell, events to share. Some of the problem is Facebook/Twitter. Why keep up with a whole blog when you can click share or post pics to tell your story?
But life can’t be told in 140 characters can it? And even the most mundane Facebook post can spark uncivil war. So maybe it’s time to revisit the old Suburban Guerrilla homeblog. Tell some stories that need to be told and some that don’t. There have been a lot of things happen in this trailer park since I last posted regularly. Lots of epic tailgates. Two puppies have joined the crew and one has been lost. The Princess and Budman have grown up and out.
So I think I’ll try to go back and capture some of those stories. Memorialize some of those precious memories. Share some of those good times. And that is important because life brings unexpected changes. We’re all going to need those great memories as we live through some not so great times.
Life can change in an instant. In our case it was not like a lightning bolt. More like a slow motion train wreck. It started with a cold. Or the flu. Or some other passing annoyance that just hung around. The Esposa got sick. Then her Mother passed away. Facing a long car trip we decided to hit the ER for a Z pack and maybe an inhaler. In and out we thought. Go early in the AM, out in time to stop for lunch while the pharmacy filled the prescriptions.
Within an hour pneumonia was diagnosed. Within two she was in the ICU. By dinnertime on a ventilator, packed in ice to bring down her 105 degree fever. Within 24 hours chemically paralyzed and strapped into a device that kept her flipped on her front side so her lungs could expand. Within 48 hours tests confirmed she had Legionnaire’s pneumonia. We almost lost her. Christmas came and went. Then New Year’s. But she fought her way through it. Weak and beat down. All we needed was a couple of weeks in rehab. Physical therapy. Get her strength back.
Doctors at the rehab hospital were concerned about a potential intestinal blockage. They ordered an abdominal CT scan. Then they scheduled another for the next day, with dye this time. What they didn’t say was that they found concerning liver spots on the first one and needed the second to confirm a diagnosis. A diagnosis that no one would enunciate. It was there in their downcast eyes. In their lowered voices. Transferred back to the big hospital for more confirming tests, biopsies and such.
After 4 days the diagnosis was clear, but the tests would take several more days to come back. So we fought our way out of the hospital, lined up some home nurses and she got to sleep in her own bed for the first time in three weeks. Oncology appointments. Chemotherapy. Surgical insertion of a chemo port. Now, just fight through it. It’s just lost hair and nausea.
Four weeks in, oncologist notices an irregular pulse rate. Referred to a cardiologist. Diagnosis? Atrial Fibrillation. More pills. More risk. More worries.
Multiple times throughout this truly slow motion two month and counting train wreck I have thrown up my hands. “Jesus take the wheel!” But I always grab it back, try to fake like I’m in control again, only to realize (once again) that I’m not in charge here.
So to keep myself from looking forward past the next round of meds, the next round of chemo, the next doctor’s appointment; I’m going to look back. Write stories about the good times. Road trip to Tuscaloosa to watch Johnny Football beat Bama. Buying a boat last summer. Nights at the Dixie Chicken. Years worth of good memories to retain, relive and retell.
A sweet distraction from the truth. The truth is that I lack the faith and courage to relinquish control of my life to God. And maybe while I’m distracted I can finally cede control. Finally have the faith that I need to have. And let God take control.