Kick-Ass Kinda Girl

by Kathi Koll

  Now, I can look back and understand how important a little time to myself was. It’s not easy to leave your loved one, whether you can afford it or not, but little times here and there are vitally important. It’s impossible to keep up caregiver energy twenty-four hours a day without falling apart, and falling apart doesn’t help anyone, especially the caregiver.

  I was fortunate to have the resources to travel, but learned very quickly that being away for more than a few days was harder than I could imagine. It was very difficult on Don, too. He would practically close his eyes the entire time I was gone, hoping sleep would make the time apart go quicker. I, on the other hand, would think of Don the entire time I was gone. Wherever I was, he was constantly on my mind; sometimes I felt like I might as well have stayed home. I was miserable. After a few days I would adjust a bit and take the time to try to feel free of problems and imagine I was living the life we lived before Don became ill. My imagination was never completely successful. The saddest part was returning to a life I had unrealistically dreamed would be fixed when I walked through the front door. It was far from it.

  With a few flight changes behind us, we finally reached our destination. I had no idea what to expect, but I quickly got the sense that the Dominican Republic was going to be laid back and casual, like Cabo. As the five of us drove up to the house, I felt like Cinderella arriving at the ball. My problems were behind me, but only physically. Emotionally I had a pit in my stomach. The house was beautiful and the Econns gave me the best room right on the sea. Everyone was doing their part to make me feel included, but I’m sure they sensed how difficult the journey was for me.

  We started the week by playing tennis sets. It reminded me of the times Don and I were in St. Tropez, and he’d come along with me to watch me play matches at a neighbor’s home. “Don, this is just a little social neighborhood thing. You’re not supposed to clap and make such a big deal every time I make a point. It’s getting a little embarrassing,” I’d say to him as my partner and I switched sides. I needed him back. I needed to hear his cheers. I could hardly hit the ball.

  As the sun was setting that evening, we were still sitting by the pool looking out over the Caribbean as Frank Sinatra came on the stereo. My mind drifted to the times Don and I lounged on our chaises in Cabo, listening to music under clear star-studded skies. Memories of our first evening together in our Beverly Hills home filled my thoughts, too. The evening was balmy, the living room pocket door windows were completely open to the outside. I was wearing my long slinky nightgown. He took me in his arms, twirled me around, and we danced all around the pool till we fell onto the sofa where our romantic evening…I wanted those days back again.

  The Dominican Republic was a wonderful escape for me, especially with the pampering from my friends. I was having fun, but how could I be? I felt guilty enjoying myself, knowing Don was struggling at home. My days were a reprieve from the endless responsibilities so very far away, but a minute didn’t go by that I didn’t think about my real life.

  Guilt is the number-one word I hear from caregivers over and over again. It was the feeling I never escaped. He was ill. I wasn’t. He couldn’t talk. I could. He couldn’t walk. I could. He couldn’t control his life. I could. I was happy I went to the movies today. He wasn’t. I was happy to take a break. He was lonely when I was gone. “How perfect can I be?” I’d question. The list went on and on.

  I would’ve loved to see Don handle our island outing. We signed up for a boat to take us snorkeling, but the boat turned out to be one with a cast of thousands. Can you just picture it? Scuba tanks hanging off the side, tourists (like we weren’t?), lots and lots of people. We decided to charter our own boat, which turned out to be a great idea. We motored to an island that was pretty, but nothing like the places Don took me to. It made me think about our trip to Corsica and some of the little beaches we went to. “This week is your time to not have anything on your mind,” the group would repeat. It was so nice to hear, but I couldn’t sit still because, when I did, I couldn’t get Don off my mind. I thought about him all day long—almost every minute.

  We ended the day back at the house resting by the pool and playing dominoes for hours. The best part was never having to change out of our bathing suits. Now this is what I call luxury. Little did I know that we were in for more adventure and luxury than we’d expected.

  “Hey, Greg, you want to go for a golf cart ride?” I asked one of my hosts near the end of the week. “I have an idea.”

  In he jumped, and off we went. I had received an email from my friend Mary Ourisman, who heard I was in the Dominican Republic, saying she was at Casa Grande, and her hostess would love to see me. Greg and I made our way to Casa Grande and found what we thought was a hotel. We arrived at the same time as a crew that was setting up for a party that evening. No one—guards and all— realized we didn’t belong. The guards just thought we were part of the guest list. We drove through the open gates down a long, winding driveway shaded by magnificent trees arching over the road. We knocked on what we thought was the entrance door. Slowly I turned the knob as Greg and I looked at each other with wide eyes.

  “Why not?” Greg shrugged.

  “Hello? Hello. Anyone home?” I shouted. There was no answer. I’d been friends with Greg since high school and knew he’d be up for a little mischief.

  Slowly we entered. Where was the reception desk? Where were all the people? It soon became clear we were not in a hotel. We were trespassing in someone’s home. With nervous energy, we took our own private tour. My heart was racing. I hadn’t done such a brazen thing since fifth grade when my friends and I climbed over the wall of silent screen star Harold Lloyd’s home in Bel Air. Although an armed guard quickly chased us out, we caught a glimpse of the private play yard—an exact replica of a Cotswold village—and a zoo with monkeys in a large ornate cage. “We need to be friends with this kid,” I said to my friends.

  Greg and I explored room after room, each more beautiful than the last. We even took photos of each other on the veranda overlooking the sea. Were we crazy? As our confidence grew, we began exploring the grounds. We turned a corner, and before we could run, we came upon a woman sitting alone by the pool.

  “Are you Kathi Koll?” she asked. Greg and I were blown away.

  “Yes.” We were caught. And she knew my name.

  “I’m so glad you found me. I’m Lucy, and my hostess would like to invite you and your guests for lunch tomorrow.”

  “We’d love to come,” I quickly answered. We were still surprised she wasn’t even the least bit suspicious of how we had ended up on the pool deck in front of her. It was a successful adventure, and the next day we all spent with our new friends was as grand as Casa Grande.

  My week seemed long, but by the time it ended, I realized how quickly it really flew by. I was getting anxious towards the end and missed Don more than ever. The plane ride home seemed never-ending. As I looked out the plane’s window to the beautiful land and sea below, I closed my eyes and thought about what Don said to me right before we got married: “I’m worried about our age difference. You might be left alone one day.”

  “It doesn’t matter. A few years with you would be better than no years at all.”

  Now I understand what he meant. But even though our time was cut short, it is more special than I will ever be able to explain to anyone. I wish we could have held on to what we had, but I have our memories—our life together and dreams that really did come true. Of course, I wish I could change how difficult our journey was, but in many ways I wouldn’t change it for the world. Don taught me how precious life is and how special it is to be in love. For that I will be eternally grateful.

  I couldn’t wait to see Don. When I entered the house, I dropped my bags at the front door and ran down the hall with lightning speed. I couldn’t get to him fast enough. I burst into our room full of excitement. Don’s beautiful smile was waiting for me, but the incredible joy I thought I’d feel quickly faded. It fel
t like a ton of bricks had just fallen on me. My situation, his situation, the world’s situation, it all looked bleaker than ever. I was so happy to see him, but nothing was fixed; he was still paralyzed, was still on a ventilator. He looked so fragile. His color was different. He looked older and weaker than my memory of him. I felt like I was starting all over again. I struggled to put a smile on my face. My heart was heavy, and I was fighting back tears. He was still so sick. I wanted my husband back. The one I married. The one who took care of me. My best friend and life partner. Where was he?

  That trip taught me a lot about being a caregiver. Breaks can do a world of good for caregivers and patients, but my trip to the Dominican Republic was too long. With small breaks—a day here, a day there—I didn’t leave my life emotionally. I was able to step back in without sadness but with a refreshed outlook and a renewed strength. Patients can become selfish and not realize how hard the caregiver has it when it’s always about the patient, never the caregiver. Don appreciated me more when I came home. My break wasn’t unbearable for him, but it did give him a chance to think about what I did for him. His loneliness gave him the time to sit back and clearly look at the value I was giving to him in his life, both physically and emotionally. There was a lot more “I love you” and “thank you,” which was all I really needed. Those words gave me the strength to do my job as a caregiver, but with a refreshed peace of mind.

  I knew that this break would help move our relationship forward, both as a couple and as teammates in our new normal, and make us better able to tackle whatever came our way. With hindsight 20/20, I see the things I’d do differently that first time away, but those mistakes were also part of what kept us on track and prepared us for the future. We each got to reevaluate our priorities and how best to manifest those in our lives.

  The most important thing to Don was to walk again. I thought his first choice would be talking, but he was bent on walking. Not one physical therapy session a day, but two. Don took his therapy very seriously, so it was important that his therapist be a good match for him. I never knew why, but one particular therapist drove him crazy, so she had to go. She retaliated by egging everyone’s cars— including the doctors’. It couldn’t be proven, nor did I have the time or energy to confront her, but everyone knew it wasn’t just neighborhood hooligans. I was living with so many people I barely knew. People I liked. People I didn’t. It was its own little world, and sometimes I felt like I would drown in it.

  Don worked so incredibly hard on his various therapies, and it was exhausting for him. In between sessions, he took long naps. There was no possible way he could have visitors during the day. He insisted that if anyone wanted to visit, it had to be after 4:00 PM because he was working. He didn’t want anything or anyone to get in the way of his way of recovery. Some of his family members expressed disappointment in this choice, because they didn’t want to drive from Newport Beach to Los Angeles during traffic hours. Because the messenger always gets killed, I took a lot of heat for it; but those were Don’s rules, and I made it clear this was Don’s time and not time for anyone else’s convenience. In his mind, it was no different than working at the office or being in a meeting.

  Along with physical and occupational therapy, he had speech therapy most days to get any possible chance of voice out of him and keep his vocal cords exercised. I never realized how important getting his jaw moving was until I witnessed Don suffer lockjaw at one point. It was very dangerous because if he had to be intubated for any reason, it would be impossible to get a tube down his throat. Even with speech therapy and mouth exercises, he experienced it from time to time. The only solution was injections of Botox administered into his jaw to enable it to move freely. Over the years, I used to joke with him that he must be asking for extra shots because he looked awfully good.

  On top of it all, he was running his business. His partners came to the house a few times a week, and in between, they emailed reports that I read to Don.

  “Do you want me to reread this to you?” I’d ask after reading a long, boring email. I thought there was a lot of complicated information, and he might not understand it completely just from my oral reading. I certainly needed more time to understand it in between my gulps of water.

  “No, don’t stop,” he’d mouth. “Read more.” He got it all and was very impatient. I couldn’t read fast enough for how quickly he picked it all up.

  Don’s career was a large part of his life. As soon as he could communicate with me, he told me he wanted me at the office every day. He wanted to know exactly what was going on and wanted me to understand the business. One of the last things he said to Jerry, his son-in-law and colleague, on his way to the hospital the day of his stroke was, “If anything happens to me, are you prepared to work with Kathi?” Jerry assured him he was.

  It might be serendipity, but a year or so before Don’s stroke, he asked me to work with him on a development he was about to start in Cabo. He knew I had built spec homes—an ‘If you build it, they will come’ style endeavor—when I lived in Missouri and was impressed at what a tight ship I ran on a rather complicated home we built together in Mexico. Even before we were married, I had built spec homes in Mexico, and I was always excited to get involved in projects there. I had done some limited work with him on a proposed project on Catalina Island, but Cabo was going to be different. It was the project we both had our hearts set on. His company was running smoothly; he had a good team, and this was going to be the project we could have fun with and do together.

  It was a time in his life when he could have retired, but that was never something Don would do. “Some of the guys from Stanford University used to be so interesting for me to talk to when they were still working,” he said after a reunion once. “We’d discuss the world, our careers, and our futures. Now when I ask them what they’re doing, they say, ‘Well, I get up in the morning and have breakfast with my wife, then I go to the golf course, then I play gin with the guys, then I go home and have a cocktail with my wife, then we have dinner, then I go to sleep.’ They do the same thing every day. I’ll never retire.”

  As soon as the purchase of the Hacienda property closed, Don had the two of us working on plans with the architectural firm Hart Howerton in San Francisco. Everywhere Don and I went, every vacation we took, the project was on our mind. We’d be walking down a beach in Sardinia and spot a stone wall—“Perfect for the entrance,” we’d agree—or be having a massage in Bali—“The size of the treatment rooms should be a little bigger.” We were constantly on the phone with the architects behind the scenes chuckling at the hours we called. Morning: serious call. Late afternoon San Francisco time: “OK, guys, they’re calling from St. Tropez after dinner. Get ready for some creative ideas.” The rosé always made us more imaginative. We were designing a dream project together, and at the same time, having the time of our life. It was a wonderful collaboration resulting in a first-class resort. Sadly, once construction started, I had to spearhead the efforts without Don because of his illness.

  Land’s End, at the tip of Baja California, Mexico, was merely the small fishing village of Cabo San Lucas and scarcely inhabited when Bud Parr, a contractor from California, and Luis Coppola, who’d been a US Air Force pilot, arrived in 1947. Rod Rodriguez, the son of a former president of Mexico, built the small forty-eight-room Palmilla Hotel in 1956 near neighboring San Jose del Cabo as a fishing refuge for luminaries such as Bing Crosby, John Wayne, and Desi Arnaz. Funny to think so many years later his daughter, Lucie, would be my best childhood friend. Bud Parr, his nemesis, built the only other hotels in the area, the Hotel Cabo San Lucas in 1961 and, in 1963, the Hacienda Hotel located at the tip of Baja in the almost-nonexistent town of Cabo San Lucas. Coppola was responsible for the Finisterra in 1972. These three men were the true pioneers of Cabo starting in the early ’50s.

  When Don appeared on the scene in 1964, not much had changed. He was a young man with curiosity, an enviable zest for life, ambition that saw no boundarie
s, and an idea of turning this sleepy little fishing village into something, but at the time, he didn’t know what. He had met a bush pilot who recommended that Don fly his small plane down the coast of Baja. When Don reached Land’s End, he circled over the famous arch and spotted the Hacienda Hotel, which was the only building for miles. In those days, there was no town of Cabo San Lucas, just San Jose del Cabo, the historical town twenty miles north. Don landed his plane on a dirt runway in a dried-up riverbed, which is now a large marina holding thousands of boats. He walked up the beach, explored around the hotel, and decided he wanted to own it one day. He explored the rest of the area, but in those days there was only a narrow, arduous road connecting the resorts, which made driving prohibitively difficult. Each hotel had a small dirt airstrip on which to land. Don had no idea his dreams would turn into what Cabo is today.

  He was the second wave, and what a tidal wave he created. Don took what Rod and Bud built and brought the area into a whole new world. The world of golf. The world of first-class resorts. Don never wanted to do anything half-assed, as he would say, and knew for Cabo to flourish, golf and hotels had to be first class.

  “Who’s the best golf designer in the world?” he asked someone at his office.

  The answer came back, “Jack Nicklaus.”

  “Then let’s hire him,” he said enthusiastically.