A Good Young Man

 My 28 year old nephew, Todd Calhoun, passed away unexpectedly two weeks ago. Yesterday we attended his service at Christ Church in Plano, Texas. I had the opportunity to do the remembrance at the reception after the service. Below is what I prepared and read.

For those of you that don't me, my name is Uncle Dexter, Sir, and I am proud to claim Todd Calhoun as my nephew. I take my uncling duties seriously and Todd, God bless him, made my job easy.

When Todd was still being toted around in a carrier and car seat, his Aunt Cindy and I were chosen to be the first babysitters, so his new parents could take a break. Initially this was to be an overnight stay, and then it was dinner and a movie, and then, finally, just dinner. I don't think Carol and Rod didn't trust us; they were just anxious about leaving him. They have always been a close family.

Todd, when he stayed with us, was a fussy baby and a picky eater. I take that back. He wasn't so much picky as inhibited. Finding the right combination of food, time, and comfort, where he could manage to eat easily was a big challenge. It was frustrating for Rod and Carol, and it added some stress to big family meals for them. I'm sure they got more than their share of advice about it, but Todd grew into a charming young boy, with an easy, twinkling smile, and a surprisingly big, quick laugh.

Todd's mother was quite the stickler for manners. Early on I picked up on Todd always telling me "Yes, sir" and "No, sir." I decided I liked it, and from then on, I attempted to teach all my new nieces and nephews to call me Uncle Dexter, Sir. The older ones, well, they were not inclined to be so respectful, but I still claim the name. As the designated "fun" uncle, I had some empathy for Todd when his manners were corrected publicly, but it worked. He became a respectful, well-mannered young man, with a genuine concern about helping others, especially his grandmother, Frances.

As a young boy Todd was regularly at our house for family get togethers and spent a lot of time in our backyard, specifically the pool. He had been swimming since an early age, thanks to his parents, and he was, as they say, a fish in the water. The kids often played a game of diving for objects at the bottom of the pool, and Todd was quick. He was smaller than some others, and his underwater swimming was more chaotic than smooth, it was more wriggling than swimming, but somehow, he frequently won those diving games. I can see him now, bursting up from the water, with some blue ring or yellow missile in his hand shouting "Got it!" with a big smile, bright eyes, and water sparkling on his lashes. I've been thinking about that scene these past few days, and marveling that a simple memory like that, feeling the pure joy of a child in the mental replay of it, could bring such comfort. Todd still makes me smile.

We kept a cabinet full of snacks in the kitchen. All the kids knew where it was, and they all helped themselves freely. Todd always asked. Politely, of course. If there were a bunch of kids getting snacks, he would defer to others, letting them get what they wanted, settling for animal crackers when he would prefer Oreos or chocolate chip muffins. That memory stuck with me because it was such an extraordinary trait for a little kid, that consideration for others. I remember thinking he was like a little old man who was just happy seeing everyone else happy. We could use more of that in the world these days.

As Todd got older, he became quite the reader. Once, at a big family gathering, I noticed Todd slip up the back stairs. I figured he just wanted to get away from the chaos and potential teasing. After a while I realized he had been up there for some time and went to check on him. He had pulled my office chair in front of the bookcase, looking through the titles and cover art of my book collection. He asked me if I had read them all and I told him, "Only the good ones." He immediately wanted to know which ones were "good" and we talked about books and authors and what I liked and what I didn't. From that point on he always checked to see what I was reading when we got together. His list was always longer than mine, but I was always flattered to think he respected my opinion on such things. In this case, I don't think he was just being polite. I think he was genuinely curious, and he became a very astute and mindful reader. I'd like to take credit for that, but I'm pretty sure that was all his Mom.

As Todd moved from high school to college to the work world our relationship changed a bit. He was still respectful, and still genuine, but in those 20-something years when everyone knows so much more than anyone over 40, I got a few more eye-rolls, a few more "it's a lot different these days Uncle Dexter." I didn't mind. I was happy to see him making his own way, doing the right things for his own reasons. 

These little stories may seem silly, but praying and thinking about Todd these past few days has helped me to realize that these seemingly simple things have a big impact on people, and relationships, and ultimately the world. I am a proud Uncle of all my many nieces and nephews, and today I am especially proud of Todd. I will miss him. I am very sad that this world didn't get the benefit of having this good man in it just a little bit longer. Thank you Rodney and Carol, for this opportunity to reminisce, and for the good man you raised.

My Big Brother

I recently had the honor of speaking at my big brother's memorial service:

Winnie & Sons- Whitney's Wedding 

I got married in December of 2020 and my new wife was crazy enough to let me plan the wedding and our travels afterward. I wanted her to meet my family and so we headed to Pampa to knock out several introductions in one trip. Janie was, of course, anxious about meeting everyone but I assured her that my siblings were the best people on earth and she needn't be worried. It's been a little over a year now. I think she's beginning to understand what they all mean to me and how important they have been in my life.

A secondary reason for making the trip was to check in on Bill. He had recently been through some serious medical adventures and I wanted to see him, to check in. We've never been a family where everyone is in the middle of everyone else's business, but I wanted him to know we would be there if needed. He was my big brother, the first person I ever looked up to, the most reliable, stand-up person I have ever known. I wanted him to know I learned and appreciated the big brother lessons he taught.

My earliest memory of Billy is when I was probably 5 years old and sharing a bedroom with him on Christy Street. We had bunk beds and as little brother I had the top bunk. He was 11 years older than me and had all these exotic, grown up things like aftershave, a billfold, a record player, and various other things that were "look but don't touch" items. At bedtime he would stack albums on the record player ... Bobby Vinton, Roger Miller, The Four Seasons, Bobby Vee, Johnny Horton ... and let them play out. Billy, never sang along. He would turn on his bottom bunk reading light, eat his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and kick the bottom of my mattress if I was being fidgety or talking too much. He'd kick, the mattress would bounce up and I'd hear "Go to sleep, Deck."

As a kid, nothing was a bigger pleasure than to hang out with Billy. I got to tag along on a fishing trip out to some pond with Billy and his friend Monty Gordon. He saved me one day at the City Pool when I accidentally jumped in the deep end of the pool and panicked. We rode horses together at Grandma Turner's when my uncles would let us, and did some quail and dove hunting, too. He took Loretta and Nelda and me camping at Greenbelt Lake one summer. We were staying in a pop-up camper and a thunderstorm blew through one night. I don't think Bill slept a wink worried about us all. I think it was Loretta that got caught with a fish hook on that trip. Bill took care of that, too. For my 13th birthday he surprised me with a trip to Amarillo to see the dirt track races, just him and me. We drove in a red Chevy Impala that threw a fan belt on the way home. Of course, there were no cell phones and it was late. Bill hitchhiked to Panhandle, found a fan belt at the truck stop there, hitched back and fixed it, in the dark, with a screw driver and a crescent wrench.

Billy played basketball for the Pampa Harvesters, quite the bragging point at the time for a younger brother, even if he wasn't a starter. Mom used to take me to the games, though we always arrived after half-time when you could get in free. She said not to tell him we came to the game because it made him nervous, but he knew. After the games we would go to the A&W drive-in where I would get one of those small mugs of root beer and maybe a hot Dr. Pepper. Billy would ask me when he got home if I enjoyed my root beer.

Everyone in our family is smart, in one way or another, but Bill may have been the smartest of us all. When we added on to the Christy Street house the roof in the addition leaked like a sieve. We couldn't really afford to have it done by professionals so Mom pestered Billy until he came up with a plan to put a proper slope on it and re-roof it. I must've spent a week on that roof helping Bill and learned a lot, but was mainly just amazed at his retro-fit rafter design and calculations. Mom always depended on Bill, and he always delivered, though typically on his own time and terms.

As I mentioned, Billy was 11 years older and so I got to sit on the sidelines and watch him go through a lot of tough times. At some point, after he had been out on his own for several years with a wife and kids, he ended up back home, sharing a bunk bed with me again. This was at a time when divorce was still very much a "What will the neighbors think!" sort of thing. He was always quiet, but was especially so then. I never heard him complain or say an unkind word about anyone. I saw him consistently work hard and try to do the right thing. For a period of time he worked at a hog farm and I marveled at how he could get up and go to that stinky, hard job without complaint, but he did, all while managing the demands and responsibilities of that difficult time. I learned a lot of lessons from Billy that he should have never had to teach me, but I appreciated them all. He was the best teacher I could have asked for.

As I started out on my own, with life and loves and the things that happen, my relationship with Bill changed. We'd work on home projects when visiting each other. He'd be silly Uncle Billy with my kid, and I'd be mean Uncle Dexter with his. We played golf. We built buildings. We made each other and everyone else laugh at family gatherings. I felt honored and lucky to have such a great big brother as a friend. 

A favorite tactic of Mom's would be to have Billy pitch her ideas to me when she thought she knew best or when she wanted some favor. She knew I was more likely to listen to Bill. What she didn't know was that when he talked to me about them he always said "Your Mom says," and he would finish with his opinion on the matter. Once Mom was dead set on me spending a week of vacation building a new corral fence for her horses. Bill told me, "Your Mom says she needs a new fence, but she really just needs that corral cleaned out and an electric fence around the top to keep the horses from chewing on it." so that's what I did.

It is impossible to sum up any life with a few short stories and observations. I know I'm biased, and just because he was my brother doesn't mean I know everything about him, but I can tell you this. He was a man of faith, in word and in deed. He was honest, in relationships and in business. He was sincere in his laughter and his grief. He acted out of love. My big brother Billy did his level best to be a blessing to everyone he had a relationship with at home, at work, at church, in the community. He was my hero as a kid, and my role model as an adult. None of us are perfect, but I can honestly say that in the 60+ years he was my big brother, he never let me down. He was never anything but caring and kind and helpful to me. If it was fan belts or fish hooks or fences, any of the daily chores and challenges of life, I could always count on Billy. If it was faith or family or forgiveness, the bigger responsibilities and questions of life, I could always look to Bill as a compass because I knew he would choose the right path, even if it wasn't the easiest.

To me, my brothers and sisters are the best people on earth. I love them all for who they are and I know they love, and tolerate, me. I miss my big sister Jennifer and I will miss my only big brother Billy. I could sure use his help these days, and he'd probably be eager to give it. I'll have to settle for remembering the love and the lessons. Those will be with me always. 

I love you, Billy.

And then there were five .... and for some reason, I feel diminished. Well loved and blessed! But somehow less.

Sunshowers

My street - Hartwood Dr.

I was in junior high, probably 7th grade, the first time I heard the phrase "the devil is beating his wife." I was on Bus #9, parked beside the tennis courts at Pampa High School, waiting for Delbert to drive us to our drop off on Farley Street. Farley was the last street on the southwest side of Pampa and all the kids from Farley and Christy and Dwight used to walk over there to catch the bus in the morning. On the way home we always had our fingers crossed, hoping Delbert would drop off the "city" kids before the "country" kids. Dropping off the country kids first added what seemed like hours to our bus ride.

Mr. Blue Sky

It was probably one of the country kids that knew that phrase and said it out loud while we sat on the bus, watching big rain drops come down on a perfectly sunny day. If I had to guess I'd pick Regina Benyshek, but it could have been Leigh Barrett or Alicia Mahaney or Johnny Harper. I think the Burke's rode that bus, too and it sounds like something Merlie might have said. I asked my Dad if he had ever heard that saying and he said, "Sure. It means the devil is up there stoking the fire and heat in the sun, burning away the clouds and the rain that was prayed for, and the little rain that falls is his wife crying because while he's doing that he's beating her." Dad could have been full-of-bull, but it sounds reasonable in an old-timey-saying way.

Deep green and wet leaves

I was reminded of learning that phrase on this morning's walk. If you follow me on Instagram you know that my walk often includes photos of large, old trees around Overton Park in Fort Worth, Texas. It rained overnight, ending about 7AM. It was 7:30 before I made it to the park. The sun was out, and though it wasn't raining, under the trees I was getting wet. Rain was still running off the leaves to the point where you could hear the shower when you were under the trees in the shade. Through the trees I could see blue sky and a shining sun. It was such an odd experience, something a Texas Panhandle boy would have had little chance to experience what with the lack of trees and rain.

The Bridge - glowing

I remembered that phrase. I remembered today was Easter.

Look closely for the drips

I take a lot of pictures on my walks. I'm not necessarily a good photographer. I only use the camera on my phone. I walk nearly the same trail every day and I challenge myself to find something new, something unusual, some unique perspective that I haven't seen before, or that I think people might enjoy seeing.

It's more game than art, but it makes the walks more interesting and I find that it opens my eyes and ears. I also know that more often than not, my perceptions are drawn upward to the big trees, the colorful and changing sky, the birds ... the things above.

It must have been a cool rain, or maybe it was just because my feet were wet from walking in the grass, but there was a distinct temperature differential between where the sun was shining and where I walked in shade. The day would warm up, but walking the shady parts of the trail was like being there when the front blows through, or the thunderstorm outflow catches you, bringing that make-you-shiver rain.

Thinking about cold rain brought a song to mind, one from high school, a blues song, burned into my psyche from ZZ Top's "Rio Grande Mud" album ... "Sure Got Cold After the Rain Fell."  It's a straight-ahead-dead-sad-blues song, a distinct change of pace, and the longest song on that album. One of the lyrics is:

Somebody can you tell me what make a man feel this way?

Like river without its water, like night without a day.

And it sure 'nuff got cold after the rain fell,

not from the sky but from my eye.

Those "lines" are rain drops

I was well aware that today is Easter. The sun shining through the trees. The warmth overcoming the cold. The strange sensation of rain drops from the trees while the sun is shining. The sounds transitioning from busy, coarse street-side traffic to quiet, wet woods with raindrops. The overwhelming sensation of Spring and renewal.  There weren't many people out and about, an unusual morning walk in many ways, and I selfishly enjoyed it alone, but felt compelled to share it here.

I took quite a few pictures today, and even a video!. I've included most of them here. I hope they convey something of what I was thinking and feeling on the walk which was essentially this:

It rains in everyone's life, sometimes even when the sun is shining. I can tell you what makes a man feel like a night without a day, but you don't have to stand in that deluge. You can find some sunshine. But know that even after the rain stops, sometimes a big, cold left over drop will catch you on the neck, make you shiver, and remind you of a bad, dark rain. Nothing you can do about that really. You could walk under an umbrella everywhere, but that blocks the sun, too. Best you can do is walk through the drips, appreciate what came with the rain, and look forward to finding some sunshine.

In Search of Comfort

Of an evening I like to find a comfortable chair with an easy reading light and sip a smidgen of bourbon, with a little ice, from a hefty glass while reading The Bible aloud to no one. Please understand that this says more about my humanity, my creatureliness, my search for comfort than it does about my righteousness. I make no claim to that. None. Even the act of reading is a selfish search for comfort, for understanding, for purpose. And I confess I often make more time for bourbon sipping than Bible reading.

Humanity is always in search of comfort. We trust in the certainty of our science, we dream of having confidence in our leaders, and we are uplifted when faith and trust in our fellow man is restored. Sometimes all those things fail us, and we are left grasping for something to hang onto, some eternal comfort. Try as we might we never quite understand the fullness of whatever eternal comfort exists, certainly not in this world. This world is too broken. The small comforts of a few verses read aloud, a whispered prayer, the embrace of someone that truly cares for you, the ease of true friendship, a snippet of song or piece of art or a turn of phrase that encapsulates our feelings ... these are our refuge, our meager comforts, our reasons to continue.

My desperate Bible reading this week took me to several passages in Psalms and I found some comfort there.

I read Psalm 133 through 136 and learned, or re-learned, that "his steadfast love endures forever." Many times in my life I have questioned God when bad things have happened, wondering the purpose of suffering. In retrospect, which seems to always have more clarity, I've come to understand that it takes both the good and the bad to appreciate the fullness of life I have lived, and that both have brought me to where I am today. I cannot forget the bad, or discount it, because that diminishes me and makes me a shallow, incomplete person. I will not say that I am grateful for those bad things, but I am grateful that steadfast love endures forever.

I read Psalm 137 through 140 and came across a verse that is burned in my brain, Psalm 139:13-14:

For it was you who formed my inward parts;
You knit me together in my mother's womb.
I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works;
That I know very well.

As someone who frequently feels 'not good enough' this is an amazing comfort. But that's a selfish, personal comfort. This particular verse was also part of my morning Bible reading the day of the memorial service for my dear departed niece, Colby Katherine Finn, in May, 2010. I remember reading that verse and getting stuck on "knit me together in my mother's womb" and "fearfully and wonderfully made." At first I thought, "how cruel." At the memorial service, surrounded by friends and family and witnessing the impact of this innocent little one on her community, I had to acknowledge the truth of it. She was fearfully and wonderfully made and that gives me, a 60 year old man, some comfort that I might possibly be wonderful.

I read Psalm 145 through 150 and found some wisdom in Psalm 146 and some hope in Psalm 149:

Psalm 146:3-4

Do not put your trust in princes,
in mortals, in whom there is no help.
When their breath departs, they return to the earth;
on that very day their plans perish.

Psalm 149:1

Praise the Lord!
Sing to the Lord a new song,
his praise in the assembly of the faithful.

I think we have all seen a prince or two that does not deserve our trust. It's a reminder of human fallibility, our inherent craving of comfort above sacrifice. It's wise to be cautious of those who claim leadership and power, regardless of your political persuasion. Distrust is a good safeguard against tyranny, but it also helps to combat our own pride, our tendency to envision ourselves as completely in control.

And as for the "new song," this, to me, is a call to hope. That our song can be new. It does not have to be the same old song. The Psalms themselves are poetry, songs. There is rhythm and meter and rhyme that provides a foundation, a starting place. Dietrich Bonhoeffer in Letters and Papers from Prison, puts it this way:

What I mean is that God, the Eternal, wants to be loved with our whole heart, not to the detriment of earthly love or to diminish it, but as a sort of cantus firmus to which the other voices of life resound in counterpoint. One of these contrapuntal themes, which keep their full independence but are still related to the cantus firmus, is earthly love. Even in the Bible there is the Song of Solomon, and you really can't imagine a hotter, more sensual, and glowing love than the one spoken of there. It's really good that this is in the Bible, contradicting all those who think being Christian is about tempering one's passions (where is there any such tempering in the Old Testament?). Where the cantus firmus is clear and distinct, a counterpoint can develop as mightily as it wants. The two are "undivided and yet distinct," as the Definition of Chalcedon says, like the divine and human natures of Christ. ... Do you understand what I mean? I wanted to ask you to let the cantus firmus be heard clearly in your being together; only then will it sound complete and full, and the counterpoint will always know that it is being carried and can't get out of tune or be cut adrift, while remaining itself and complete in itself. Only this polyphony gives your life wholeness, and you know that no disaster can befall you as long as the cantus firmus continues.

I know no Latin or music theory, but I get the gist. The cantus firmus is the underlying song, the melody of our life. If that is based in God, or if you prefer the greater thing outside yourself, then as long as your loves, your life, your actions are in "counterpoint" or harmony with that foundational melody, then you are in "the song" ... "the story" ... "the poem" ... "the picture."

I believe that in this world, that is where you find comfort. Not in your own song, not in your selfishness, but in harmony with a true song, something above our mortal abilities, something more substantial than earthly comfort.

My Bible reading this week took me to several passages in Psalms and I found some comfort there. Whether this was God speaking to me or my own desperation to find comfort, I do not know. But it was found.

All of the above is a bit grandiose. Philosophical and epistemological rantings that are well above the pay-grade of a glorified keyboard monkey. My only excuse is that this is the second anniversary of the loss of my love and I still struggle with sorting it all out, with making sense of the joy and the tragedy in the 30+ years of our life together. I'm not as lonely, and I'm not as lost, and I'm not as shocked as I was two years ago, but I am trying desperately to sing a new song, one that is in harmony with something bigger than myself. I'm starting to hum along. A bit. There have been fits and starts and I'm inherently skeptical, but I'm starting to feel the rhythms and anticipate the rhymes. I am hopeful. And comforted. And anticipating the joy of a new song.

Happy New Year!

New Year's Eve 2019 was spent with old friends that I haven't seen in quite some time. For many, many years we would gather at Brenda and David's house on New Year's Eve. Our kids would draw names and exchange gifts. We would watch whatever football game was on, eat, drink, talk, and tease. We would kiss our sweeties and toast when the ball dropped in New York City, 11PM our time. Sometimes we would stay until our midnight. Other times we would head home right after the toast because the kid was sleepy, or because I was.

Kissing your sweetie was an important part of the New Year tradition, like the Southern tradition of eating black-eyed peas on New Year's Day for good luck. The superstition behind the kiss was that what you're doing at midnight on New Year's Eve would be what you'll be doing the most of for the following year. There weren't quite as many people at the get together last night. Only a few kids showed up, and they were drinking as much or more than their parents, not exchanging gifts. I didn't have a sweetie to kiss, but that's not a complaint. I was happy to be spending time with friends and that seems like a wonderful activity for the upcoming year.

I spent New Year's Eve 2018 in Sugar Land. Some neighbors down the street invited me to their house and there were a lot of neighborhood people there. Most of them I did not know, but it was nice to meet them and visit a bit and learn a bit about them. I snuck out sometime before the ball dropped, walking the half block back home in a cold, for Houston, wind. Everyone was nice, but I was uncomfortable. The holidays require a lot of social energy, and I was running low.

As I laid in bed that New Year's Eve, sleeplessly watching the alarm clock tick over from '18 to '19, I realized that on New Year's Eve 2016 I did not kiss my sweetie at midnight. She was in Plano. I was in Sugar Land. She had spent New Year's Eve with friends and family in Plano, while I stayed in Sugar Land and unpacked. We had just moved into our new house and there was a lot to do. That night, as she was getting in bed, she coughed hard and felt some pain in her chest. We soon learned that the cancer had returned. That story has been told. I'm not re-telling it all here. I'm not superstitious. Midnight on New Year's Eve is just another moment in time. But it is a marker, a remembering point. Memories are not mistakes or triumphs. They are what you make them, and it seems that over time the good ones win out over the bad.

Last night I left shortly after 11PM. It's a long drive from Plano to Fort Worth and I didn't want to be on the road after midnight with a bunch of rookie drinkers. I was on I-30 headed west with the downtown Fort Worth skyline coming into view when I started noticing sporadic fireworks. Small ones, nothing too showy, probably set off in someone's backyard, hoping the neighbors didn't call the police. Someone's tradition. Someone's superstition. Someone wanting to mark the moment, spark some excitement, and ignite some good luck and happiness for the new year. Here's hoping we all get good luck and happiness in the coming year, regardless of our traditions!

I tossed and turned a bit last night, before finally falling asleep. Anxious, as always, about the things to do and the things undone, I finally relented to sleep by convincing myself that I could put off those things for a fews hours, until tomorrow and a new day.

This morning, as always, the sun came up and life continued, despite the momentous marker of being New Year's Day. I was reminded that today was a dear friend's birthday, the anniversary of another friend's wedding, and a day when everyone "starts over" by making resolutions or just simply being able to close the book on the previous calendar year. I'm not much on resolutions, they seem a bit contrived to me, but I assume they work in their own way for many people because the tradition continues. It makes sense, in a way. It's a permanent marker kind of date. But three or five or seven weeks from now, January 1 is just another day when the sun came up, and it loses the magic, the spark of being a new year.

I feel like I have done a lot of starting over recently. New jobs. New home. New relationships. Starting over doesn't always work out like you want. Too often when we "start over" our goal is to meet our own needs, to make ourselves happier or healthier. I kissed my sweetie on New Year's Eve because I wanted to keep kissing her. I should have been looking at it the other way round. When you kiss someone, do it to make them happy, not for your own agenda or need. Their happiness should be your reward.

If I have a resolution this year it is to be more selfless, to worry about other's happiness more than my own, to ignore my own discomfort if my presence is helpful to someone else. I would like to give more happiness than I take. I don't want to be the person who thrives on conflict and complaint. I've known too many people in my life like that. I've tried not to be that person, but I fear that sometimes I slip into that mode, that mindset that if someone else is happy it is somehow stolen from me, despite knowing that happiness can only be given, not taken. Or, worse, that somehow my happiness is dependent on someone else. What an unfair burden that is. You put them in a no win situation and sure enough, no one wins.

Give some happiness. You'll get plenty in return. Happy New Year, everyone!

Roller Coaster

March 25, 2017

It's been one year since my love passed away. Fifteen months before that we learned the cancer had metastasized. Three months before that she had the last of her reconstruction surgery done, which took several surgeries over 14 months. Before that process started she had been in chemotherapy and radiation treatments for 8 months. That treatment started 6 weeks after the bilateral mastectomy, which was done two months after she was originally diagnosed. That was Halloween, October 31, 2014. If you add it all up, it was three years and five months from diagnosis to death.

Those three plus years were miserable. The worst years of my life. Many people advised me that cancer was a roller coaster with lots of ups and downs. I don't recall any ups. It was a desperate downhill ride. We never found the part where the trajectory became positive. Oh, we had a few moments when we thought the trajectory had changed ... when chemo ended and the hair started growing back cuter than ever ... when the reconstruction surgery provided the cup size she'd always wanted ... when we moved to Sugar Land to reboot and prepare for retirement and maybe some grandkids some day. They were all just foolers, leading you to believe you were somewhere you weren't. It was all downhill. No matter how strong your brave face was, from Halloween 2014 to Easter 2018, it was a slow, struggling descent. The challenge was to stay on the ride, to hang on, because the trajectory might change. Hindsight proves it didn't.

Everyone says you can't put a clock on grief, but we do. We have to, because time is the only thing that heals, or at least makes the grief tolerable. In many ways I think that the grief process has been easier on me than on those who weren't along on the daily descent. I saw Cindy vulnerable, and afraid, and in pain, and hopeless, and helpless. I saw the suffering up close and how much it defeated her, a woman not accustomed to defeat. Yes, her family and friends and co-workers knew she was struggling, and I know they loved her through it. She loved them, too. But to the bitter end she worked to spare them the worst of it, until she just couldn't do it anymore, either physically or emotionally. That was her gift to us all, to be strong, to persevere, to maintain dignity, to live and die on her own terms. She made it as easy for us who remain as she could. It's up to us to learn from that for our lives going forward, and for our own future demise. She will always be my love, but she will also always be my hero. I can only pray that God will give me the strength and courage that my dear Cindy had in her life, but especially in her death.

My family and many dear friends have reached out to me today, knowing it is the first anniversary of my love's departure. I appreciate all of the calls and notes and messages. It helps me to know that I am not alone in my grief, that Cindy impacted everyone she met, that Cindy did not just belong to me. It reminds me that my love was loved by many, and that makes me proud that she chose to go through the dying process with me, that she trusted me to take the ride with her. She will always be my love, and every day I could use her help, I need my right hand, but I also know she intentionally made it easy for me to go on without her in many, many ways. What a heroic thing to do.

It's been one year since my love passed away. I've changed jobs. I've listed our house in Sugar Land for sale. I've purchased a new, smaller home in Fort Worth, and hope to move in the next few months. I've been diligently working on getting a handle on finances, and doing my best to help Griffin on his path forward, though he seems to have it well in hand ... he is his Mother's son. These are all major changes, something psychologists would say are stress inducing and yet, as overwhelming as the details can be, it's all quite invigorating. It's all something that I think Cindy would be proud of me for tackling, instead of climbing into a bottle or dragging everyone into my "woe is me" story.

The major changes include a new relationship with a woman I greatly admire. It began three months after Cindy died. Some might  say, and have said, that it was too soon to have a relationship. All I know is that after my love died the roller coaster continued to descend until Susan changed the trajectory. I'm no hero. I have no answers. I don't know the approved time-table for grief. I know that Cindy wanted me to be happy and that Susan makes me happy. This is a new ride, one that will likely have its own ups and downs. I believe that Cindy would be proud of me for taking the risk, regardless of the calendar, and I am glad that Susan has trusted me enough, so far, to take the risk with me.

It's been a year since my love passed away. I wouldn't be the man I am without her. I want to be a

man she would be proud of going forward. I think I can do that, with just a little help, because as we all know, women make men better. I think I've found one who makes me better, and my intention is to at least enjoy the ride.

This year, will be a good year.

My Big Sister

Dear Whitney and Jessica,

It was an honor to be asked to speak at my sister, your mother's, memorial service. I'm posting my words from the service here, so that everyone knows the love and admiration I had for Jennifer. Your father Dan, but especially your mother, Jennifer, were huge influences in my life. Not only did they teach me ...  they supported me, believed in me, trusted me. Those things are priceless, as you well know.

When we lose someone there are always regrets. The things we didn't say. The things we said that we shouldn't have. The missed opportunities and simply running out of time. I never thanked either of them enough for the things they did for me and there's no making up for that oversight, but they both knew I loved them and that will have to be enough. I love you and your families, too. Holler if you need me.

Love,

Uncle Dexter

---

I am number five of the seven children of Billy and Winifred Turner, almost exactly halfway between my oldest sister, Jennifer, and my youngest brother, Neil. Though I'm number five sequentially, I am, by age, the middle child*. Neil is 12 years younger and Jennifer was 13 years older, which means she was an adolescent when I was born, and she was leaving home at the time of my earliest memories. It's disorienting when you lose a constant in your life. It's like "home base" in a game of tag or kick-the-can has been moved. You're still in the game, but not quite sure where "safe" is.

Dan & Jennifer - summer visit to Pampa

One of my earliest memories is moving Jennifer into a dorm at Texas Women's University. I had never been anywhere with so many trees, and so much humidity! It was an odd thing for a young boy, to see his big sister, a person he idolized, be so excited about moving away, leaving Mom & Dad & brothers & sisters. To this day I can't drive by the oaks on the TWU campus without thinking of Jennifer and the gratitude and excitement she had at the opportunity to learn and add to her life experience.

I also remember parking myself for hours in the branches of a tree in our front yard, waiting for Jennifer to come home for holidays. Until Christina arrived, I was the baby, and I just knew she would be bringing me a special treat, that she would be happy to see me and show me she was thinking of me. She never disappointed. Whether it was a TWU sweatshirt, that I proudly wore to school despite their lack of a football team, or a cassette tape player, complete with The Beatles Magical Mystery Tour tape, she always let me know she was thinking of me, that I mattered, that I was good enough to deserve those gifts.

Jennifer & Thanksgiving dessert

I spent many summers with Jennifer and Dan. I learned a lot and that, I think, was a primary motivation for Jennifer to put up with me those summers. We went to museums and libraries. We wandered around downtown Fort Worth, the biggest buildings I'd ever seen! We visited Fort Concho in San Angelo and the Frank Buck Zoo in Gainesville. Jennifer wanted me to have experiences I couldn't have in Pampa, to see new things and gain a bigger perspective on the wider world. She did everything in her power to do that for me, to instill in me a sense of adventure and a desire to learn.

When I headed off to college Jennifer was always there in a supporting role. My freshman year I broke the rules by living off campus with a friend. Jennifer let me use her address in Haltom City as my residence so the school thought I was commuting and I wouldn't have to pay for a dorm room and meal plan. She coached me on writing research papers. She fed me on weekends and paid me for doing chores around her house, including baby-sitting Whitney, so I could have some extra cash. The summer before my sophomore year, when she was pregnant with Jessica, she spent a long, hot day in Denton finding an affordable apartment for me while I was working in Pampa. She gave me counsel and guidance and, more importantly, confidence in my own choices and decisions. Getting that validation from someone you truly respect, well, it's priceless. I am eternally grateful for that.

Jennifer getting Cindy & Candy ready for a ride

As I grew older and married and had my own family we had fewer opportunities to connect. Throughout my life she was always the older sister, the one who lived elsewhere, the one I knew from a distance, just like my brother Bill. I looked up to them. I admired them. I still do. So many of the characteristics and strengths of my brothers and sisters are things that I use today as standards, as benchmarks. Jennifer was the first born, the leader, the trail blazer. We would all be different people without her example, her influence, and I have no words to express my gratitude for being fortunate enough to be the "middle child" in this amazing group of siblings. None of us are the type of people who are "in your business." All of us are the type of people who will do whatever we can for each other, for family, for friends. For me, Jennifer set that standard.

For years I have cautioned my son, Griffin, that at some point we all have to overcome our parenting. Though we do our best, parents are imperfect. The hope is that love will fill in the imperfect gaps. Fortunately, for me, I have my brothers and sisters. Each of them - Jennifer, Bill, Loretta, Nelda, Christina, Neil - have helped to fill in those gaps in some way or another. As I mentioned before, losing Jennifer is disorienting. There is a part of me that I cannot touch, that I cannot visit to reassure myself about who I am and what I am about. There is, however, comfort in knowing that the gifts she gave me, the important gifts like love of adventure and learning and being supportive of others, will always be a part of me, and a part of our family. And there is peace in knowing that despite the differences of age and circumstance and distance, she loved me. I loved you, too, Jennifer. Rest in that peace, knowing we all loved you.

Dan & Jennifer ... and me, hiding from the photographer behind Dan!

* Nelda, the actual middle child, took some offense at this statement so let me correct the record. She is the middle child. I am simply the child that was equidistant in age between Neil and Jennifer!

Patience and Peace

Thanksgiving in Edmond, 2018

I eat too fast. When I sit down at a meal with friends or family I'm nearly always the first to finish. When I eat by myself it's even worse. Once the food is in front of me it becomes my sole focus. If it's really good food I'm not distracted by conversation or manners, I just keep chewing. I know this about myself, but have only recently been concerned about it. Maybe everyone else at the table is slowing down, or maybe I've speeded up so much that even I notice it. It's a habit I'd like to break.

I'm tempted to explain the behavior by my upbringing in a large family where competition for pork chops was fierce, but that's not accurate. Yes, there were seven kids in my family, but our ages range over 25 years which means we didn't all grow up together, much less eat supper together. There wasn't that much competition for the pork chops. I could probably make some excuse about not knowing any better, not knowing that shoveling down your food was impolite, but you'd think that would be more common sense than training. The truth of it is I'm just impatient.

Recently I've made a new friend. He eats slowly, or maybe he just eats more than everyone else, but in either case he's the last person to finish a shared meal. I have older friends that get accused of eating too slowly, too. Being the last person done with a meal seems to be much more noticeable than being the first one. It's hard for me to be critical of slow eaters because maybe they're not slow, maybe I'm just too fast. I usually defend them, telling others to back off and let them finish in peace, without rushing. Secretly, I'm wishing I had tarried a bit longer over my meal. Savoring seems more mature, and more enjoyable, than scarfing, but old habits die hard.

As a kid I always felt meals were an interruption, so I hurried through them to get back to what I was doing, or to get on to the next thing, such as dessert! Part of it may have been that family meals were almost always a minefield, never knowing what comment or information would trigger a lecture or worse. Part of it may have been the utilitarian nature of meals. They weren't so much an event or opportunity as a chore, something that needed to get done, something to check off the to-do list. Cook the meal. Eat the meal. Clean up after the meal. The tasks had priority over the meal itself. Whatever the case, I eat too fast, and wish I didn't.

Thinking about it now, the fast eating, or rather the impatience behind it seems to be a factor in everything I do. There's a reason I'm not a watchmaker or winemaker. I don't do well on projects that take a long time to come to fruition, or that have tedious tasks that shouldn't be glossed over. In Mr. Mackey's 9th grade shop class, despite being good with the designing of projects and handling of tools, I invariably made a 'B' on my wood working projects. At least I was consistent. They were all marked down because I didn't do enough sanding; I always rushed through the final finishing bits.

It's evident in other ways, too. I'm planning on buying a new car in about 6 months so, of course, I've already begun researching and online shopping. I know if I walked into a dealership today I'd probably drive out with a new car. I'm not entirely sure that's a bad thing, since I can often be paralyzed into inaction by the research phase, but I'm not kidding myself. I know it's just the kid in me wanting the toy now, not later.

Too often I approach life, work, relationships, and even grief with this sort of logical process approach. I've done this bit, now what's the next one? And what's after that? And when do we get to the good part at the end of the process, when are we finished? When do we get our grade, our satisfaction, our dessert?

MDPC, Houston - 2nd Sunday of Advent 2018

Today, in the Revised Common Lectionary, is the second Sunday of Advent. The scripture reading was Luke 3:1-6 in which we learn that John the Baptist came to 'make the rough ways smooth' for the coming Lord. It is also the Advent Sunday when we talk about and proclaim the Peace of Christ. I can tell you from personal experience that impatience is no way to find peace, and it does nothing to smooth out the path for you or anyone else. I worry that my restlessness, my need to be "finished," my inability or unwillingness to wait, has made other people's paths rough and crooked, instead of smooth and straight. Some things, however, you can't take back, you can only repent, a primary message of John the Baptist, and try to do better in the future.

This advent season I hope to learn to savor and wait for the hope and the joy, instead of jumping straight to the Herald Angels. I need to take my time and appreciate the peace in the waiting, knowing that the joy is coming, and with the hope that I'll have the opportunity to share all of it gratefully with others. Someday. May the Peace of Christ be with you.

Introduction / Contents

The Next Great Adventure: A True Story

Introduction / Contents

I think I know myself fairly well. I know, for instance, that I lean to the glass half empty side of perception, and that it often takes me a long time to collect data, think things through, and come to some sort of understanding. I know that writing not only forces me to organize my thoughts, but it also gives me an outlet for those thoughts. More importantly, however, in this particular exercise, it has allowed me to share some of my very personal and private thoughts. 

I never would have guessed sharing my personal thoughts would be something I wanted to do. It's funny how things change, how we grow, what becomes important. I began The Next Great Adventure: A True Story as a way to cope with my grief, to come to a personal understanding. As it has progressed I have been contacted by many people who have told me that our story touched them, and so I've been sharing it with friends and family.

The intent was to record the story and do a little introspective mining to help me understand, to get to a more comfortable, less confusing place. The goal was met, at least for me personally. Though the story is unique to our personal history, I think it contains some truths that anyone can apply and understand. At least I hope so. Though the stories may be interesting, please look for the truth you can find in them.

The Sequential Stories

The Adventure Begins

... how we met

An Interlude

... a glimpse into the future

The In Between Time

... deciding to get married

Oh, Atlanta!

.... our first year together

Gone to Texas

... getting back to our roots, early marriage

H-Town, Part One

... career decisions, role changes

Birthdays, Babies and Brides

... settling down, making a home

Things Change

... becoming parents

Faith and Control

... finding faith, some regrets

For Richer, For Poorer

... unexpected riches of a long marriage

Sowing & Reaping

... coping with life changes, cancer diagnosis

Saved

... the adventure ends

The Background Stories

X Marks the Spot
... the day after she died

30

... more details on how we met and married on the occasion of our 30th anniversary

A Cancer Catharsis

... my thoughts after the initial cancer treatments

An Easter Story

... the story of my baptism - key to much of the truth in the sequential stories

Christy Street, circa 1969

... another key

Not Nearly Enough

... from Cindy's memorial service

Saved

The Next Great Adventure: A True Story

Saved

Initially, the move to Sugar Land seemed to be just what we needed ... the next great adventure, a new start for a new chapter. When we learned the cancer had metastasized it took on a different feeling. Instead of an adventure, it was more like a winding down, a tidying up, a gathering of loose ends. I was struck by the symmetry of the course of our time together. We started out as young newlyweds, living in a city far away from friends and family, sorting it out ourselves. Here we were again, in the same situation. Though we had plenty of offers of assistance and many people who wanted to come help, that was not our way, it was not what we did, nor what Cindy wanted. Instead, we walked alone, for the most part, at least in the practical, everyday sense. It was what I needed to do, and what Cindy wanted to do, and I can't think of anything we would have done differently given the chance.

Cindy had been treated by the Texas Oncology group at Baylor-Plano, and they were the doctors that confirmed the cancer had returned. We met with the same group here in Sugar Land, which was only a few miles from the new house. They recommended an initial treatment plan in consultation with her previous oncologist, and told us that there would be no cure, that eventually the cancer would win, but in the meantime we could treat it as a chronic disease, attempt to slow down the growth of the cancer, and to extend life and maybe find some time in remission. There is a long list of approved, available medicines and as long as she could physically receive and handle the treatments, we could keep trying different drugs. It was a race to find effective medicines.

We understood. We knew that even the best of the approved treatment options had 30% or less effectiveness. She received the most effective treatments on her first rounds of chemo, and they didn't work. I checked into getting an appointment at MD Anderson, one of the best cancer treatment and research facilities in the country. As long as we were here, I felt we should take advantage of the resource. Cindy was ready to just start treatment, but I signed her up on line for an appointment with an MD Anderson breast cancer oncologist with offices in Sugar Land. We met with Dr. Saleem and Cindy was immediately comfortable. Dr. Saleem re-iterated that it would be a chronic disease treatment program, but added that there were a significant number of clinical trials available at MD Anderson. We didn't think long about it, and soon Cindy was an MD Anderson patient, signed up for a clinical trial, and we learned that there was a whole new level of navigation skills required for their version of the cancer treatment industry.

We had been cautioned before switching that MD Anderson could be impersonal, that you could feel like a number or research subject rather than a patient. There was a lot of that, but Dr. Saleem was her relationship touchpoint and that was all she needed, to have a person behind all the labs and biopsies and forms and appointments.

My employer, and especially my co-workers, were very supportive, allowing me to work a flexible schedule to take Cindy to appointments and treatments. A typical MD Anderson day involved leaving the house at 7AM, dropping Cooper at doggie daycare, then driving down to MD Anderson Mayes Clinic in the medical district. Once there, it was up to the 7th floor to have her power port  accessed, and then down to the labs on the second floor to have blood drawn. After an hour or so wait, long enough for the labs to be run and recorded, it was up to the 5th or 6th floor to meet with Dr. Saleem, or the research nurse if she was in a trial, to see if she was in good enough shape to receive treatment. Then it was on to the infusion area, where we signed in and waiting for a bed to be available. Depending on the medicine, infusion would take anywhere from 2 to 10 hours. Some days I had to leave early to pick up Cooper from daycare before they closed, and then go back to MD Anderson to pick up Cindy.

Treatment days were surreal. They were structured and planned, but oddly chaotic because you did not know how long the wait time might be, if a room would be available, what the lab results might say or how long it might take the pharmacy to create the chemo cocktails. I always brought my laptop, but rarely worked. It was as if, for that period of time, nothing existed outside of the schedule, the medicine, the information from doctors and nurses, and the waiting. Inside the massive MD Anderson facilities, where they have indoor electric shuttles to take patients from building to building, was like being in isolation, with a view to the outside, healthy world, but no way to be part of it. Aside from the bureaucracy and facilities and the constant poking and procedures there were the other patients. Hundreds, maybe thousands, filling up the comfy chairs and coveted recliners in the halls and waiting rooms. The caregivers and friends accompanying the patients displayed their own patience, courtesy, and compassion, but they also all had this subtle tension, from frustration, perhaps, or maybe it was just the uncertainty of it all. Furrowed brows. Tight lips. Tiredness, all around.

Cindy would often sleep on the way home, exhausted. Leaving MD Anderson, two thoughts always burdened me. The first was that we were not alone, there is a massive cancer treatment industry and whatever our current situation, we were just another patient/caregiver pair on the spectrum of suffering. The second thought was always, "My God. Why?"

After each of the periodic diagnostic scans I would sit down and compose an email to send to friends and family, explaining the latest news, trying to be factual, trying to be honest, but not alarming. In truth, it was dire the day metastatis was confirmed. Our options were limited and, of the ones available, I think we made the best choices we could. We rarely received good news from any of the diagnostic scans. The only upbeat thing in my email was typically that we still had options, there were still other drugs, other trials. By early fall she had been through two clinical trials, two or three other 'standard' treatments, radiation to kill the cancer that was invading her spine, multiple biopsies, and months of unrelenting pain that could be medicated to a tolerable level, but never really went away. From the beginning Cindy never wanted to ask what the prognosis was. She didn't want to know, she didn't want facts to influence her hope or her effort. Dr. Saleem refused to answer me when I asked, always deferring to Cindy, so I stopped asking. Finally, in early October, Cindy asked the question and Dr. Saleem told her three to six months.

We had a Lehigh trip planned for Parent's Weekend later that month and we told Griffin in person. Cindy did not want me to share the prognosis with anyone, though I did share with some close friends and family who kept quiet about it until Cindy was ready to talk. Neil and Usha hosted all of Cindy's family for Thanksgiving and it was obvious she was losing the battle. I insisted, so we finally had the discussion with the Calhouns at the Christmas family get together. I don't think anyone was shocked. Her decline was pretty obvious, despite the brave face she put on. By January we were grasping at straws, seeking treatment at the MD Anderson Targeted Therapy Center , which is basically just a last-chance, 'Phase 1 - first human test' research group. She never really got healthy enough to get into a treatment program. February and March were a blur of emergency room visits, infections, fluid in her lungs, short hospital stays and long, sleepless nights.

One Friday she was in really bad shape and after calling the doctor I forced Cindy to get in the car to go to the MD Anderson emergency room downtown. She didn't want to go. She was in pain and miserable, but I couldn't do anything to comfort her. She cried, until we got there, and then she got mad and uncooperative. They admitted her to the hospital. We spent Saturday getting tests and evaluations. The weekend staff, doctors we didn't know, were informative, but not especially compassionate. On Sunday they sent us home, saying there was nothing further they could do, and recommending palliative care, hospice, to be administered at home. At first, it was just to be every other day. By Wednesday, she was practically immobile, with no strength in her legs. She was on oxygen. I carried her to the bathroom. She slept. She complained. She was forcing herself to eat, but not eating much. By Thursday, the hospice nurse was recommending around the clock care. At the hospice evaluation on Saturday afternoon, the supervisor guessed she had 12 to 24 hours.

At 4AM Sunday morning I woke up, went to the kitchen to get a drink of water. Checked in with the hospice sitter who said there was no change. Cindy was sleeping in the recliner, the only place she had been comfortable for months, I kissed her on the forehead, told her I loved her, and went back to bed. I had no sooner put my head on the pillow than the sitter called, "Mr. Turner, things are changing." I woke the family that were staying with us and called the others at the hotel. Not long after, maybe 90 minutes later, she passed away, and around 8AM the cremation service came and removed her body.

I was so wrapped up in myself and my feelings, that I only vaguely recognized that the friends and family who had come to see her in her final days, were also suffering. I regret not noticing, not being able to help them, but I know they weren't expecting that from me. It is hard to see when you are in that moment. You think you are prepared, but there is no preparation that is sufficient. That same day, after everyone had left the house, my thoughts went back to all those patients I had observed at MD Anderson and I thought, "those caregivers will be in my place someday," but then I realized it wasn't just cancer patients. It's everyone. It was a strangely comforting thought. Others had done this, everyone else will, my grief was not unique. It did not make me special. It made me humble. What is my grief compared to all the grief that has been and will be?

I missed her terribly. Still do, though mostly at odd unexpected times, not like the oppressive, smothering grief of those first few weeks. I've spent the last several months trying to reconcile memories and dreams, to get to some sort of understanding about how to deal with the loss. I've been writing here. I've been taking care of myself physically. I've been talking to a wide variety of people. I am not delusional enough to think that I can understand it all. I just need 'some sort' of understanding, something of substance, something representative of the love and respect and time that we shared together. I know that whatever I come up with won't be complete, I just want it to be true.