Let's Radiate Don

Right outside our front door a beautiful, vibrant shrub has begun it’s summer bloom.  The flowers start out a deep purple, fade to lavender, and then turn white just before they die away.  It’s called “Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow”.  Don was the gardener at our house, and he planted three of these shrubs about ten years ago.  He loved it when they would bloom, a sign that summer was just around the corner.

I walk past these plants every day, but have never really thought much about the name.  Now it seems ironic, almost mocking, that there’s a reminder just outside my door – I don’t get to have tomorrow with Don.  We got to have yesterday, and up until six months ago, we got to have today.  But we don’t have tomorrow.

Yesterday, in some respects, is a blink.  We would have celebrated our 30^th wedding anniversary this Tuesday.  Thirty years ago we said our vows in Alexandria, Virginia – for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health – we’ve seen them all.  How is it possible that three decades have passed?  We generally marked our anniversary rather simply – we might go out to dinner or to a movie.  We’ve actually spent many anniversaries at Dodger games.  For the big ones we splurged and did something fun – on our 20^th we went to Bora Bora, and for our 25^th, we celebrated in Napa.  We dreamed of going to Italy for our 30^th.  But no matter how we celebrated, we always recognized the significance of each passing year together.  For months now I’ve been stumped with how I want to spend this special evening.  After all, an anniversary is usually shared by the couple, not necessarily with kids or friends.  How do I even begin to signify the importance of this day?  It’s not a celebration, because the man I love isn’t here to share it with me.  It slowly dawned on me that on Tuesday, I’d like to go to our local steakhouse, a favorite of Don’s. Dave and Kathy, and maybe our kids, will join me.  I feel the need to mark it somehow.  Thirty years is significant, and I’d like to have steak, baked potatoes, and gin and tonics all around.  Don would like that.  And of course coconut cream pie…

Today, actually, is teeming with life.  Andrew and his girlfriend Scarlett decided a few months ago to move from New York to Los Angeles.  They are busy and working and adjusting to life on this coast.  (I’m sensing a mini-migration to California of some of their friends from college as well, which makes them happy.)  Molly has been climbing the ladder at the clothing store where she works and is so good at what she does.  I wouldn’t be surprised if some day she makes the move to New York.  She is delightful to have around, and is always introducing us to some new crazy-healthy food or juice.  At her Emerson College graduation ceremony, Carrie was very thoughtful about how she wanted to honor her dad, and make sure he was included in her day.  She wore navy blue Van’s tennis shoes, a Don Rhymer fashion staple.  She painted her fingernails Dodger blue.  And she and a few of her friends decorated their caps with “Focus on the Good”.  I burst into tears when I saw what they had done.  She’ll be home in a week or so, and I’m excited to see what the world holds for her.

The only way I could be more grateful for all of this life is if Don were here to share it with us.

Which brings me to tomorrow.  I now have an understanding of the saying “one day at a time” like never before.  If I let my brain go too far into the future, I can’t even begin to fathom it.  It’s been six months.  I can’t imagine one year, or six years, or twenty years.   That just doesn’t compute.  I feel like my answer to almost every question these days is “I don’t know”.  I don’t know what to do for vacation.  I don’t know when to clean out his closet.  Some days, I don’t know how to get up in the morning.  But I have a friend who tells me, “You know what you need to know”.  Vague, yes.  But oddly comforting as well.  I know what I need to know.  That’s actually all any of us have.  I don’t need to know anything else.  Tomorrow will take care of itself.

Don, at his core, was an uncomplicated man.  He loved his friends, he loved his kids, and he loved me.  And I know he wouldn’t want us to worry about tomorrow.  So I will try, every time I see the shrub outside my door, to remember that yesterday, life was vibrant.  Today, life is vibrant.  And tomorrow – with God’s grace – life will somehow be vibrant as well.

- Kate

When Carrie was a little girl she was invited to go camping with a friend’s family.  She was intrigued; this was something new and different.  She asked me, “Mommy, do we have a camping dad?” I thought about it for a minute and replied, “No honey, we have a room service dad”.  That pretty much summed up the way Don liked to vacation.  Nice hotels, nice pools, nice bars.  A hotel without room service?  That was camping.  A hotel without a bar?  Like being left alone in the wilderness.

On the other hand, I grew up camping.  My family had a trailer, and that’s how we spent most of our vacations.  We would pull out the Woodall’s Campground Guide and plan out our trip.  In college I joined the Outdoor Adventure Club, and spent many weekends backpacking, hiking, and cross country skiing.  I’ve even done my fair share of spelunking (crawling in and out of caves).  When our girls were younger I was their Girl Scout leader, and I loved teaching them about the outdoors. I once took 40 girls on an overnight backpack trip.

One day last week I woke up feeling an almost physical need to see the houses and neighborhoods that we have lived in since we moved to California.  As hard as it is, I have been learning to trust myself when I get this feeling and just go for it.  Don and I moved to Toluca Lake from the Washington D.C. area and lived there for two years.   We then moved to Burbank where we spent the next seven years.

For three hours on Wednesday I drove around the streets and neighborhoods where we lived.  The memories came flooding back.  Don walking the kids to preschool with Bagel the Beagle.  The places where the kids took gymnastics and swimming lessons; neighborhood markets.  Sunday afternoons watching Don play baseball, and parks where the kids had played.  Homes of old friends.  I felt the urgency of remembering – of making sure I don’t forget any of it.  I came home and was completely done for the day.

Kathy had texted me several times that afternoon, but I was driving and couldn’t text back.  And I didn’t feel like talking.  She was worried about me; I hadn’t let her know where I was or what I was doing.  However, that evening she asked me about my day, and as I described my experience I compared it to rock climbing.  I thought back to a climbing term I’d heard years ago.

Belay.  “The process of securing and safeguarding a climber by using rope to hold the climber’s weight if he falls.”  The climber says “on belay” to let the person holding the rope at the top (the belayer) know that he needs support.  And then the belayer responds “belay on” to let the climber know that he is secure; that he is safe; that it’s ok to climb.

I tried rappelling in college, and it scared the crap out of me.  I did it one time.  I don’t know what I was thinking – I’m scared to death of heights.  We did some climbing at Seneca Rocks and Reddish Knob.  The mountains of West Virginia and Virginia are beautiful – from the ground.

I’m beginning to realize that when I feel like I’m sliding down the side of the cliff, down a hole, I need to communicate with someone at the top.  To either let them know that I’m ok; that I can climb out on my own.  Or to let them know that I’m already at the bottom, and have no idea how to get out.

That’s what the climber’s rope is for.  And that’s what community is all about.

Belay on.

P.S.  Don would be waiting at the top for me with a gin martini – up, with a twist…

- Kate

Dodger Stadium.

Don was a huge baseball fan.  He played as a kid.  He played as an adult.  During college, and when we lived in the Washington, DC area, he was a Baltimore Orioles fan.  About 20 years ago, I gave him a Christmas gift – a “once in a lifetime” week at Orioles Fantasy Camp in Florida, where he and his friend JG would get to play 2 games a day against former pros.  Little did I know that “once in a lifetime” would turn into them attending 9 years in a row!  By that time, we had moved to Los Angeles, and he had already begun to transfer his loyalties to our local Boys in Blue.

We’ve had season tickets to Dodger Stadium for probably the past 18 years (I’ve lost track).  But not just any season tickets.  The last 8 – 9 years or so, Don purchased tickets in the Dugout Club, the premier seats in the stadium.  From our seats right behind the Dodger on-deck circle, you could tell how many at-bats Matt Kemp had by counting the wads of discarded pink bubble gum behind home plate.  You could feel the breeze from Andre Ethier’s practice swings.  Right next to the owner’s box, we have seen countless kids, baseballs in hand, approach Tommy Lasorda for an autograph.

I’m (almost) as big a Dodger fan as Don was.  (I once sent Nomar Garciaparra a new sweatband because, from my vantage point in our seats, his looked tattered and worn out.)  I probably went with Don to 25 of our 40 games last season.  Don often shared his games and his passion with his other favorite Dodger fans:  Dave, Brian, Michael, and Ron.

The thought of baseball season without Don is unfathomable to me.    Monday was Opening Day, and Kershaw not only hit his first career home run, but threw a shutout as well.   Don would’ve smiled.  I have decided not to purchase the same seats this year, but I’ve had friends offer me a few of their tickets to the Dugout Club this season.  I thought I’d be ready to go by maybe the end of April.  That seemed far enough away to feel comfortable.

However, our friend Bob called on Monday night with the kind offer of two tickets for Tuesday’s game against the Giants.  I told him I’d let him know.  I really wasn’t sure if I was ready to be at the stadium yet, to sit so close to where Don and I had shared so many summer evenings and Dodger Dogs.  I called my friend Angela, an avid Dodger fan, and she was available to go.  I decided to take the tickets, because then I wouldn’t really have time to think about it.

We arrived at the Dugout Club and were greeted by Rich the bartender with a hug and free drinks.  (He and Betty were Don’s personal favorites.)  We toasted Don with our gin and tonics.  After eating salad, salmon, pasta, roasted turkey (yes, the food is a huge perk in the Dugout Club), and of course Dodger Dogs, we found our seats, sandwiched between Rob Reiner and one of the owners of the Giants.

It was a beautiful evening.  We were amazed by the new hi-definition scoreboards. (Angela and I were even on Dodger Vision for a few seconds.)  We chatted with the people around us, and ate cookies that looked like baseballs.  During the Seventh Inning Stretch, we swayed and sang “Take Me Out To The Ballgame”.   It really was nice to be there where everything felt so familiar.

Our weekly trips to Dodger Stadium in the summer were such a big part of life for Don and me.  We would wear our Dodger shirts when the air was warm; our Dodger jackets when the air was cool; and sit under our Dodger blankets when the evenings turned cold.  We’d watch people trickle into the owner’s box.  We’d share a bag of peanuts.   We would talk about which player was on a streak and who was in a slump.

During the past three summers when Don was going through either chemo, radiation, or both, Dodger Stadium truly became one of the places where he felt happiest.  For a few hours he could forget about everything else.  The discomfort and pain would subside for a bit, or at least that’s what he’d tell me.

I’d like to be able to say that it’s a happy place for me.  I’m hoping it will be.  Right now it’s bittersweet to be there.  But I know it would make him happy that I’m still going; that I’m still cheering on our Boys in Blue.

- Kate

That’s a Don Rhymer word.  After he got sick, and would travel to New York for business, he would call and tell me he felt untethered.  He described feeling like he was hanging out there on his own with nothing to hold on to.  We had become so accustomed to being together during his treatment.  And there he was across the country and I wasn’t with him.

I just returned from a whirlwind trip to Boston to see Carrie in the final play of her Emerson College career.  She was brilliant in a show written by her wonderfully talented friend Dan.  Her southern accent would have made her dad so proud.  Jill flew up for one performance, and Kelly, Don’s sister, came to town to see the show as well.   It even snowed on opening night.  We were all sure it was a sign that Don wanted us to know that he was indeed right there with us.

After meeting Carrie for a late lunch Thursday afternoon, I decided to wander through campus on my way back to the hotel.  “Campus” is a word used loosely at Emerson, because it is essentially a bunch of buildings across the street from Boston Common.  I wandered past the dorm where Carrie lived as a freshman, and remembered unloading an ungodly number of boxes from our rental car.  I passed restaurants where we had eaten over the past four years; hotels where Don and I had stayed.  The bookstore where we bought countless Emerson sweatshirts.  Sitting in the Common on a beautiful spring day.  So many memories.

Somewhere along Boylston Street I started to cry.  I was alone, undone.  Missing Don terribly.  I put my head down and quietly wept as I walked.  It was pretty cold, and people were bundled up, so I assumed no one would notice me.

All of a sudden a homeless man was in front of me, a paper cup in his hand.  I shook my head no, and tried to move past him.  He looked me straight in the eye, saw I was crying and said, “Are you ok??”  Again, I shook my head no.  As I kept walking I heard him behind me say “Give it to God”.  Through my tears I shook my head yes.

The humanity of a homeless man had broken through my agony.  I saw that my pain, bold and searing, is not the only pain in the world.

I made it back to the hotel, where I had a really good cry with Jill.  Carrie was brilliant again in her next performance.   Kelly and I spent our last night with cosmopolitans and cucumber drinks crying over memories and telling stories.

I now understand what Don meant by feeling “untethered”.   I feel I am grasping at something to hold on to; something to make me feel secure and safe.  And I am beginning to understand that pain and sadness are in some profound way what is connecting me to him right now.  There is laughter, and there are stories, but it’s the acuteness of the pain that I need to feel.  The deepness of the love we had for each other.  For now, that’s my tether.

And the homeless man with the empty Starbucks cup?  He’s a simple reminder that life is much bigger than my own little corner of the world.

- Kate

I think I need an umbrella.

A few weeks ago Andrew noticed that a baseboard in our family room seemed to be pulling away from the wall.  A plumber was called and confirmed that we indeed had our third leak in our copper pipes in the past seven months.  The first two had been handled with a minimum of mess and chaos.  But this one was different.  This was a leak in the pipe in the concrete slab under the house.

The first people to arrive were the dry-out crew, who set up dehumidifiers and air scrubbers, just in case a nasty mold had begun to grow.  Next came the demo crew, who started opening walls where the water had begun to flow.  The custom hardwood floor in the living room has been removed, leaving the bare, cold concrete exposed.  The copper re-pipe team has toured the house, ready to start their job of replacing all of the copper pipes this week.  They told me the house would look like Swiss cheese until all the holes could be patched.  As I said in a previous post, it’s a big house, so this is no small job.  The living room furniture is living in the dining room for the time being.  Add to the list the electrician, who had to be called to repair a circuit that was blown when the plumber jack-hammered the tile floor to find the leak.

Hopefully the pipes will stop springing leaks every few months.  The holes in the dry wall will eventually be repaired.  The hardwood floor will be replaced and sanded and stained and sealed.  We will repaint.  The furniture will go back to its rightful place.  Everything will seemingly be back to normal.

Except it isn’t.

This leak at the foundation seems an apt metaphor for life these days.  My rug has literally been pulled out from under me.  With Don’s death, I have been broken down to the barest of elements.  My sense of home and normalcy is disrupted and chaotic. Layers have been stripped away.   Holes are opened and exposed.  I am in desperate need of patching.  Much like this leak, grief stops me in my tracks and makes me pay attention to what is going on.

I started writing this on Sunday night and it’s now Wednesday morning.  I have no idea how to finish this post.  I showed it to Andrew and he said, “Just write what you feel, Mom”.

I feel sad and raw.  Nothing seems quite right.  I miss my husband, my love, my friend.  I have no idea what my “new normal” will look like.  But I know I have to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

I know I need an umbrella.

- Kate

I have spent the last two weeks attempting to write this post.  Mostly staring at the screen, occasionally typing and then hitting the delete button repeatedly. How do I express my feelings about this giant cloud that is now surrounding what has always been my favorite day of the entire year? February 23rd.

I tried to channel my father’s wit and humor as a means to express how I feel, but I realized that I am just not there yet.  So instead, I am just going to go with another thing my dad excelled at – honesty.

Honestly? I have been dreading this day since November 28th.  It’s too soon.  Our family just trudged through the heartache that came with Christmas, New Year’s and Valentine’s Day, but nope, that’s not all.  Now I have to find a way to celebrate my birthday and my dad’s birthday, without him.  I don’t even know where to start.

I’m the baby of the family, and lucky for me, I came into this family on my dad’s 30th birthday.  Obviously, his best birthday present ever (although, there were definitely times he denied this and would point to some other childhood gift he loved). My dad was the kind of man that everyone wanted to be close to. He had this magnetic personality that made you just instantly want to be his best friend.  How could you not? NOTHING compared to the feeling when he laughed at your jokes (or did the typical Don Rhymer thing and just said “That was funny”).  And I got to be his little girl. I got to share his birthday with him for 21 years.  No day was more precious than February 23rd.  It was the day of Don and Carrie.  I always felt so proud and so special on our birthday, like it was some secret gift we shared that no one could ever take from us; a bond unique in its own.

Last year my parents flew to Boston for my 21st birthday and my dad’s 51st birthday.  They stayed at this snazzy hotel, where the bar was a nightclub.  We had our first legal drink together and joked and laughed at the people around us dancing.  I want that again.

I know that it’s still a bond that only he and I share, but I want more birthdays.  I feel gypped out of years of birthdays and memories and it’s not fair. It’s just not.

I am going to celebrate my dad’s birthday with my friends in Boston this year.  I told them all that I want to have a big toast to him, and have instructed them that if there is a cake being made – it must have my dad’s name on it as well.  I don’t know what the day will be like, probably lots of ups and downs like everything else these days.  Luckily I will be surrounded by my dear friends.

I know you’ll be with me too, Dad.  Happy Birthday, I love you sososososo much.

- Carrie

We’ve got a big weekend coming up. Tomorrow, February 23rd, would be my dad’s 52nd birthday, and Sunday night is the Oscar telecast. It will be a weekend loaded with Don Rhymer memories, so we’re on high alert, threat level midnight, bracing for impact.

The only weekends I can recall getting this much hype and strategy are those when a hurricane is headed toward New York. Flee the city! Buy in bulk! Fill your bathtub! It’s terrifying, but there’s an inescapable feeling that all that Chef Boyardee may be for nothing. Storms don’t take aim. It’s often just a matter of being on the unlucky side of a river.

Personally, I over-prepare every single time. I panic-rent Zipcars. I take unruly amounts of bottled water to my girlfriend and her roommate. I determine it’s not safe in their apartment and bring them to mine. I realize  nobody’s safe at my apartment so I arrange for us all to stay with a friend. I buy aerobeds then leave them at the friend’s house. You get the idea. You don’t want to be around me when I think there’s a storm approaching.

This week I found my compulsion for preparedness took a bizarre form- I made a video. It’s short and frankly, stupid, but I wanted there to be some way to remember my dad that wasn’t dangerous or depressing. He had very little time for things that depressed him.

Above is a short reel of all my dad’s movies smashed into two minutes of fond memories and bird jokes, a survival kit of sorts. Most of you will make it through this weekend unscathed but for a few sad moments, and some of us are in for some serious water damage.

I can’t board up everyone’s windows or hold all of your hands, (I would try if there weren’t so damn many of you) but I can give you this dumb youtube video I made. If you’re hosting an oscar party, show this to the people around you and toast Don Rhymer. His name won’t be mentioned in the telecast, but please don’t make snarky remarks about it on his behalf. Hundreds of hard-working people with long entertainment careers die every year and the Oscars have time for thirty of them. (Insert your favorite Agent Cody Banks 2 joke here).

In any case, let’s just be glad we’re not watching the Oscar Funeral Spectacular this weekend. We’ve had quite enough funerals at our house, thank you very much.

Good luck this weekend, and Godspeed to all of you.

-Andrew

I’m a “glass half full” person.  I always have been – it’s just my nature.  I choose to see the good in most people and most situations.

This is new territory for me.  It’s hard to see life as a beautiful meadow of wild flowers, when right now I envision life as a huge field full of land mines.  Family traditions and holidays.  Good things that make up life, but land mines nonetheless.   Some are buried deep underground, have been there for years, and are marked with flags that say “Valentines Day”, “Carrie’s College Graduation”, or “Our 30^th Wedding Anniversary”.  And although I know they are there, I can’t avoid them.  I step on one and immediately I fall in the hole.  “That’s the thing about pain.  It demands to be felt”, from “The Fault in Our Stars”.  How true that is.  And as hard as it is, there is a need in me to feel the acuity of the pain, the sharpness of it.

On Valentine’s Day, I woke up to Andrew in the kitchen fixing me breakfast in bed – he learned well from his dad.  (Or maybe he’s been watching too much Downton Abbey – I’m not really sure which.)  It felt like a handful of dirt being thrown into the hole – a kindness – in an attempt to fill up the cavity, to lessen the pain just a little bit.  The kids (I’m sure Molly and Scarlett were the ringleaders) bought me a lovely Tiffany bracelet with the infinity/eternity symbol on it.  Another handful of dirt tossed in the hole.  In the evening we went to the home of some friends for dinner.  Besides the fact that Jim’s meal would rival some of the best restaurants I’ve ever eaten in – it provided a relaxing and enjoyable evening with friends and family.  I felt cared for and loved.  The hole was a little fuller by the time we got home.

Sometimes the land mines are just under the surface; they don’t have flags or markers.  The blast from these is often stronger, because I don’t see it coming.  I go to the coat closet to get a raincoat and see Don’s Dodger jacket.  I fall in the hole.  I am leaving Trader Joe’s and the song “Oh How Happy You Have Made Me” is playing as I go out the door.  I have to run to my car.  I am putting laundry away and end up lying on the floor of Don’s closet.  I’m startled by how quickly I can become undone.

Carrie’s 22^nd and Don’s 52 birthdays are this weekend.  She was born on his 30^th birthday, and was always his favorite birthday present.  There will be no avoiding this bittersweet occasion, nor will we even try.  Don loved birthdays.  He was the one who started the “birthday tree” tradition at our house – all the presents go under the ficus tree by the front door.  Carrie will be in Boston, and I’m not yet sure how she’ll choose to spend her day.  On this coast maybe we will go to the beach, one of Don’s favorite places.  When Carrie comes home for spring break in a few weeks, we’ll all go out to dinner and raise a glass to Don.  We’ll even have dessert and cappuccino after, assuring a long, leisurely evening, just like Don loved.  Hopefully the hole won’t feel quite so deep.

I miss him more than I ever imagined would be possible.  There will always be land mines, and holes to fall in to.  Maybe someday I’ll learn to walk around them.  But for now, a little handful of dirt sure goes a long way.

- Kate

So here I am, the baby of the family, and I’ve finally decided to check in (it’s taken a while for my fingers to thaw in this FREEZING weather). After two full months spent in the warmth of my cozy home (and pajamas) I now am back in Boston, finishing up my final semester of my college career and, quite frankly I have no idea how I got back here. But I find it all quite suspicious.

I mean, sure, I guess I was trying to be all brave and telling people “Oh sure, I’ll go back and graduate, make him proud”, but to be quite honest, I’m not sure I had any intention of actually coming back. It felt like this far off thing that I couldn’t possibly have to face anytime soon. And then Christmas, and New Years came and went and the holidays were over. Next thing I know I am on a plane to Boston (a rather nice flight actually, just over 4 hours and no one in the middle seat – plus extra legroom) and here I am. I just finished my first week of my last semester of college.

It’s been a good few weeks, exciting, but busy as I have work from last semester to make up. Harder than that though, has been not being able to pick up the phone and tell my dad about my new classes, projects and teachers. I had an audition last week, for an Emerson Stage show and it was the first audition in my life that I couldn’t call to hear his voice before, urging me on, telling me to “relax and let it fly” and after, hearing the pride in his voice no matter how it went. I’ve wanted to call him every single day, but the ache of that is slightly eased by all the times I have felt his presence this week.

I walked into my first class feeling nervous and all too vulnerable. I immediately was sandwiched in a giant hug between two of my dearest friends in the theater program. Shortly thereafter we were doing introductions in my Humans Rights class; the intro game involved us holding a small globe and saying the following statement:

“If I had the world in my hands and could change one thing it would be….”

The ball was then passed to my friend Brooke, who without knowing any of these details about my father’s last instructions to our family said:

“If I had the world in my hands I would make it so that everyone would focus on the good.”

The ball was passed to me and I said something about ensuring illness and suffering wouldn’t exist. As I said this, my other friend, Becca, gently reached over and took my hand in hers; she gave me a squeeze of encouragement, reminding me of the love and support I have here. At this moment, I looked down at our hands. Her fingernails were painted the most beautiful shade of blue – Dodger blue; the exact color and brand that I had painted on my nails the morning of November 28th while I held my father’s hands in mine as my whole world changed.

I am still scared and I still wake up some mornings thinking I’d really rather not be in Boston and feeling as though I couldn’t possibly get through the day ahead. Thus far, I have been able to combat those feelings because I believe, deep in my heart, that he wants me here. And he has been finding little ways to remind me of that everyday. It’s not brave if you’re not scared – right Dad?

I found out a few days ago that I got cast in the show. I couldn’t be more excited about this production and I know it will be a great experience, but when I called my mom to fill her in we both found ourselves in tears. My Papa Bear would be so unbelievably proud, and I can’t wait to keep making him proud.

This one’s for you, Dad.

- Carrie

After my brother’s memorial service, one of his dear friends hugged me and said “and then there was one”. It’s true. Of the family of four that I grew up with, I am the only one still here on earth. My parents passed away within five weeks of one another. And now I have lost Don. It is unfathomable.

In the summer of 2010, Don was enduring chemotherapy and radiation. My mother passed away in late June and my father passed away in late July. Don flew from Los Angeles to Union for the services, but he looked very different the second trip; thinner, his neck burned and swollen. I cannot imagine what it must have been like on a crowded plane for 5 hours, feeling as horrible as he did. As usual, he never complained, always persevered. The next two years we would waver between good and bad news. “We got it! Oh, but it popped up here. Everything is shrinking! But oh wait, it’s on your lungs.” He would always tell you the news, then say “but don’t worry, it will be fine!” So many times I would tell my friends that I could not lose Don. He was not going anywhere! Until one day, I did lose him.

Don and I shared the JOYS of cancer. As a breast cancer survivor, I could relate to his stories of drains and IVs. He would text me after one of my many surgeries with simple words: I’m so sorry. He would try to make me laugh and I would do the same for him. The last time Don and I were together was this past summer at Wild Dunes. We sat at dinner one night and I listened to Don tell a story about the summer between high school and college; I had never heard the story before. I remember wondering how many more stories he had that I had missed over the years and I couldn’t wait to hear more! I will have to wait now, along with the rest of the world who could not wait for the next blog, the next movie, the next script, the next night of just hanging out with him. I miss his stories, I miss him making me laugh. I miss his voice on the phone, his texts, his jokes, his advice. I miss him so very much.

I had 49 years of memories with Don. Playing as kids, fighting as teenagers, laughing as adults, holding hands at our parents’ funerals. So yes, then there was one. I have my father’s wit, my mother’s temper, and my brother’s desire to always make others happy, comfortable and loved. What a blessing he was in my life. For that, I am the lucky “one”!

-Kelly