Kick-Ass Kinda Girl

by Kathi Koll

  “What happened to my brother?” I asked, beside myself. “Don, did you not hear what I told you last night?”

  Don looked at me, his still-sharp mind searching for what could elicit this reaction from me. Confusion, concern, love, and the pain that he couldn’t hug me permeated the air between us.

  “Oh, no…Don. My brother died last night.”

  I sat on the edge of the bed, my eyes glancing down towards the coverlet, not knowing what to do. I looked at every thread of that coverlet for what must have been forever. I tried to hold in my tears, but it was impossible. I looked up at Don, and he was crying. My husband, who couldn’t utter a sound, was sobbing. He looked so helpless. I put my arms around him the best I could, our tearstained faces pressed together. I knew he wanted to hold me, and I so needed him to, but he couldn’t raise his arms. God, he couldn’t raise his arms.

  I was freefalling in a Grand Canyon of sadness I could no longer disguise. I could barely stop crying. Every time I walked into our room Don was staring at me. He never took his eyes off of me, and each time our eyes met he simply mouthed, “I love you.”

  My brother had been gone since Tuesday evening, but Don heard the news Wednesday afternoon. It was Thursday, and Don refused to get dressed in the morning. He didn’t want any medical staff near him, wouldn’t do any of his therapies—physical, speech, nothing. He didn’t care about the TV. All he did was watch me and mouth, “I love you.”

  I felt something was very different, and there was a definite change in Don’s appearance. I kept wondering what it was. Was “I love you” his way of taking care of me? Was it his way of letting me know he was there for me? He seemed so at peace and at the same time seemed to be deep in thought. There was an aura about him that I couldn’t put my finger on. It was a look I had never seen on Don, before or after his stroke.

  I glanced towards him, put my hand on his cheek, and told him how much I loved him and how much he meant to me. Once again, he didn’t say anything other than, “I love you.” I don’t think he had anything else to say. The look in his eyes, his skin, his demeanor, it was all different. Something was going on. He looked like an angel.

  Friday morning, Don’s main line was having problems, which meant we needed to go to the hospital. It wasn’t an emergency but needed attention. We loaded Don into the van and off we went. Don always insisted I be the one to drive. The van was huge and quite a beast to maneuver. The lift for the wheelchair alone was 1,200 pounds. At first it felt like it took two blocks to stop, but by now, I could drive it like a Porsche. I’d often mimic Don and say, “I have the need for speed,” while the medical personnel braced themselves in the back. Don loved our adventures. Our drives to the Santa Monica beach, by the home he grew up in at Hancock Park, by office buildings he had built or had wanted to build, by new projects popping up all around town. Don securely strapped into his wheelchair next to me on the passenger side. These were our escape moments.

  After so many years, we were quasi-celebrities at the UCLA emergency ward. Early on, Dr. Shpiner came up with the brilliant idea of having all Don’s procedures done there. The doctors could easily come to him versus him going to them. This day, I was so exhausted that the staff brought in another gurney and placed it next to Don for me to sleep on. I just couldn’t move.

  Soon after Don’s procedure, he became very impatient and kept mouthing, “Let’s go, let’s go.” It was a scramble to get out of there quick enough to satisfy him. In rushing, we left some wheelchair parts behind.

  “Don, you’re making me so uptight I’ve forgotten some of your things. Now we have to go back.” He merely rolled his eyes impatiently.

  It was good to get home again and feel the security of our room, our safe place, but what was going on with Don? I spent the rest of the day next to him napping and trying to get my arms around the enormity of it all. My girls were going through photos of my brother in the other room, picking songs for the service and working on the minute details of planning my brother’s funeral. As I peeked in on them, we’d cry through our sadness and laugh as we recalled typical Uncle Don stories. I chose December 7th for the service, my birthday. I couldn’t think of a better tribute to my brother than to forever share that day with him.

  Brooke was nine months pregnant. I was worried about the stress all this drama was putting on her pregnancy. I walked into the library where the girls were still working and said, “Let’s run down the hill and get a quick dinner. Don’s getting ready for bed, which will take about an hour. I don’t want him to know I’ve left; he thinks I’m helping you. Let’s go.”

  Life hadn’t changed at my favorite little French bistro on Sunset Boulevard. The escape was a welcome break for us. The world was going on, even though ours seemed to have come to a screeching halt.

  My phone started ringing just as we were leaving.

  “Kathi, come home. Come home fast. Don’s not breathing,” Don’s nurse said with a panicked voice.

  “What do you mean he’s not breathing?” I yelled. “He’s on a respirator. How could he not be breathing? That’s impossible.”

  “I don’t know. Just hurry. The paramedics are here.”

  I was shaking uncontrollably as I raced up the hill toward my house. Jennifer wanted to drive, but she was in no better condition than I was. “No, God, please don’t take him from me.” I cried uncontrollably as I turned the curve towards the house. “God, please, please, please, don’t do this to me.”

  The gravity of the situation hit me at the sight of our street closed off by three fire engines and seven police cars. I slammed on the brakes, leaped out of the car, and ran by the blockade, yelling, “This is my house.” Every light inside was on. I ran down the hallway to our bedroom. It was filled with police officers, firemen, and paramedics heroically working on Don. I knelt down next to him and yelled into his ear, “Don, don’t give up. Don, you can do it. Don’t leave me. You can make it; you can make it. Don, don’t leave me. Please, Don, don’t leave me.”

  Brooke and Jennifer stood off to the side sobbing as a few policemen tried to comfort them. All of a sudden, Brooke got up on the bed next to Don, her large belly in front of her, and said, “Step-Daddy-O, you’ve got to meet my baby.” With that Don got color in his face. He heard her. He wanted to live.

  The paramedics felt Don was stabilized enough to get him to the hospital. Dr. Shpiner arrived and jumped into the back of the ambulance with Don. I sat in the front as we sped off towards the hospital. Don was surrounded by the paramedics and Dr. Shpiner, all administering lifesaving measures on him. Measures I had never witnessed being done on him before. I was in shock. My prayers, my hope, and their expertise had to work. They just had to work. I couldn’t lose Don today.

  Our welcome at UCLA was different than I had ever witnessed before. We’d had close calls, but all paled in comparison to this. The team was ready for him, and he was quickly swept into an emergency operating room, me at his side. By then, my knowledge of Don’s situation had given me the vocabulary and stamina for anything that came our way. No one questioned why the wife was in the room. I found out later the doctors thought I was Don’s head nurse.

  Dr. Shpiner took me aside and said, “Kathi, it’s serious, but he’s surprised us before, I think he might just make it.” Hopeful optimism couldn’t hurt.

  Miraculously, Don had not suffered a stroke, and his brain didn’t show any more damage than the first stroke six years earlier, but he wasn’t regaining consciousness. The doctors decided to put him into a hypothermic coma to slow down any possible further damage, study what was happening to him, and give his body a chance to slowly heal as he was brought back. Time stood still during those eighteen hours. I hoped he’d come back and give me that angelic, “I love you.” Realistically, though, I was scared.

  As Don was slowly brought back out of his coma, the prognosis didn’t look good. He wasn’t responding. Dr. Shpiner told me to try and get some rest. Nothing was going to happen right away, but I couldn�
�t bear to leave Don alone. Four of the girls who had worked with him from the beginning volunteered to stay by his side through the night. They gave him a sort of wake. I know he must have loved it. They danced, they sang and they whispered all their deep, dark secrets into his ear.

  Early the next morning, Dr. Shpiner called and said, “Kathi, I’ve been at UCLA for a long time, and I’ve never witnessed anything like what’s going on right now. There is a long line outside the ICU doors all the way to Don’s bedside of many of the medical personnel who have ever worked for Don.” The word had spread quickly that he was failing, and people had driven from all over Southern California to say goodbye. They were dressed in isolation garb, and one by one, they were paying their respects.

  As I did the week before, I telephoned Monsignor Baird and asked if he could administer the last rites. I called our family and close friends. Everyone was given their time to say goodbye. The only request I had was to be alone with him at the end.

  It was December 6th. The night before my birthday. The evening before my brother’s funeral. The lights were dim, and our song “Unforgettable” was softly playing in the background. I held Don in my arms for the first time in many years without tubes and wires. Slowly and silently, the love of my life slipped away from me.

  * * *

  Years earlier the doctors had told me Don would go when he was ready. I didn’t understand what they meant at the time. Yes—Don did it his way. He used the days after my brother’s death to think. His I love yous were also his goodbyes.

  On December 7, 2011, as I walked down the aisle of Loyola High School’s chapel, I couldn’t help but think of my two Dons as one. Two people, but one force in my life. My family and I took our places in the front row, and as the priest finished his opening homily, he looked at the congregation and asked for prayers for my brother Don Robinson and also for the soul of Don Koll, who had passed away the evening before. There was a noticeable gasp and unquestionable shock, followed by the sound of many people crying. No one could believe what they had just heard. My two Dons were gone, but now I had two angels to forever look down upon me.

  The loves of my life were gone, and life as I knew it would never be the same.

  14

  IS THERE A HOW-TO BOOK?

  “Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.”

  —Helen Keller

  Living with a multitude of people took a long time to get used to—I’m not actually sure if I ever did—but it was a bittersweet experience, because I was at quite a loss once they were gone. They had truly become family to me. Sort of the sorority I never belonged to. They listened to my problems, watched me cry, followed the lives of my family. They were there for the birth of each grandchild. They helped me pick what to wear when I was invited to dinner with friends. They helped me pack when I had a little weekend getaway. Their absence was as surrounding as their presence. I still miss them.

  Forging a new life is difficult and takes so much work, but remember the famous quote from Churchill: “Never, never, never, never give up.” Well, that couldn’t apply more. Life is what we make it, and it comes with a price that we pay in tenacity.

  The first year after the death of my brother and husband are almost a blank now. Most of my time was spent with family and a few close friends. If I wasn’t working, I was sitting on the beach playing with my grandchildren. Just going to a luncheon was difficult. It still is, but because they’re boring. I cried a lot—and when I say a lot, I mean a lot. One day, I was sitting in my bedroom sobbing, and I thought, Who am I crying about? I wasn’t thinking about one Don in particular. I was just crying. It was bizarre to be so sad, to be in so much pain and not know who it was for at any given moment.

  I said to myself, “OK, now I’m going to focus on my husband and cry over him. Now it’s my brother’s turn.” I know it sounds weird, but I had to work at separating the two. Otherwise, my mind was an endless mess of confusion. It allowed me the chance to properly mourn each one in order to find the strength to move forward.

  My two losses were completely different. The sudden and unexpected death of my brother was the most challenging. I have no regrets of the life with my husband, but so many loose ends with my brother that will now be impossible to tie. I’ve learned to move on without as much pain, but there will always be a loss deep within.

  Being a widow has been very difficult, to say the least. Going back into that little cage of comfort is tempting, but will never bring me happiness to move on with a new chapter in my life. I hope I never look at life as only yesterday and today. I want to continue to have new adventures and stories that will also become yesterday.

  Friends will say, “Kathi, you need to learn how to be alone. I have quiet dinners with my husband all the time and just watch TV.” As much as I love them for caring about my well-being, and I know they’re coming from a helpful place, the operative word is “husband” or whomever they’re with. He might be working in the garage or reading the paper in another room, but he’s still there. I had never lived alone. I went from my parents’ home to being married at eighteen. I raised three children, and my youngest was still home when I married Don. When he became sick, I had a multitude of people coming and going. The day he died was the first time I found myself completely alone.

  Being in the midst of this self-reinvention is one of my biggest challenges yet. It’s a new chapter that I’m working on and little by little finding success. I’m pushing myself out of my comfort zone, and each time has brought new strength and—pleasure too. As difficult as it is, I’m moving forward with my life, because it’s important to understand—not only for others but also for myself—that my life hasn’t stopped. I can’t deny that bittersweet thoughts often go through my mind, but I’m making the familiar also new. I’m trying to make new memories apart from the ones with Don. He will always be there, way down in a corner of my heart, but not moving forward is losing the wonderful opportunity at a new life. I had an almost perfect life disrupted by death, which is unquestionably the worst feeling in the world. It’s not something that was chosen, but something that I was stuck with.

  The November after Don’s death, not even a full year later, I received a brochure in the mail from Stanford Travel. Since Don had graduated from there, I was on their mailing list. I peered through the pages, thinking of all the wonderful places I had been to with Don, imagining never getting to go to again. My family was all together for Thanksgiving, and we started talking about it. The hiking trip in the Pyrenees looked intriguing. Something I had never done or thought about doing.

  “Kathi, this looks fantastic,” said my son-in-law Rick. “You should do it.”

  “Are you kidding?” I answered. “I can’t go alone. I won’t know a soul. I’ve never gone anywhere alone in my entire life. I’ll be lonely; I’ll get sad.”

  “If you’re lonely and sad, get on a plane and come home.” Rick made sense.

  I started seriously thinking about it till one morning I awakened and said to myself, Screw it. What do I have to lose other than a missed opportunity? Don used to always say, “Kathi, it’s the things in life you don’t do that you most regret.” The Spain trip was suddenly a reality.

  In my nervous anticipation, I mentioned the trip to some new friends I was having dinner with. “We’re from Sweden and live there half the year. How about visiting us first?” they suggested. Before I knew it I was on my way, with my first stop at a beautiful home situated on an island in the archipelago. They welcomed me with open arms and Swedish meatballs.

  I arrived in June, when the sun barely sets. They included me at their Summer Solstice party, and after each traditional song was a downing of schnapps. To my surprise there was an additional song; they played “Star-Spangled Banner” in my honor, and of course, it was followed by more schnapps. I hated leaving the warmth of this family, but the day came, and I was off to my hiking adventure.

  I was a nervous wreck as the plane started to descend over the
town of Pamplona. What in the heck am I doing? I thought. The familiar question formed a pit in my stomach as I peered through the window at the beautiful countryside, rolling hills, and red-tiled roofs. Will I find my way? Will the group be nice? Will I be an oddball alone? Everything was going through my mind. As I left the baggage area, I spotted a man with a Stanford sign. So far, so good.

  “Are you Kathi?” he questioned. “You’re early and the first. Another couple is also arriving early, so you’re going to take a van with them to our first spot, St. Jean-Pied-de-Port. The rest of the group will arrive later.”

  The group was amazing. There were twenty of us, mostly couples plus a few singles like me. From the get-go, I felt embraced. I had absolutely no idea what the hike would be like. I had fantasized about winding trails along streams, small quaint villages, and gentle sloping hills. Oh my, yes, that was all there, but most of the time was a grueling hike in the mountains. Twelve to fifteen miles per day. I didn’t dare let on how strenuous it was for me and was secretly proud of myself that I was keeping up.

  I quickly learned that being in the front to middle of the pack was the secret. It meant longer rest time as we waited for the slower ones. Part of our group was Dr. Roberto D’Alimonte, professor of political science and a journalist engaged by Stanford to lecture on the politics and current events in Spain. Our guides, Peter Watson and Ben Littlewood, had incredible knowledge not only of the terrain, but also of the political and historical complexity of the region. For a girl who never much cared for school, I was soaking up as much knowledge as possible. I was also soaking in the tub each morning. I was so sore it was the only way I could get my tired bones moving.

  It was all so fascinating and exhilarating, just the cup of tea I needed to get me going on my new life moving forward. Learning new things and meeting entirely new people, some of whom I have become very close friends with. The group varied from journalists to families to doctors. I asked the psychiatrist of the group if he had ever hypnotized anyone, and with his affirmative answer, asked if he’d hypnotize me.