Tag: Loss

September Sadness

· 7 Comments ·

Over the weekend, I learned that one of Nick’s (my older son’s) high school buddies from the late 1990s/early 2000s, died recently of an apparent suicide. He was forty-two years old.

The timing of this devastating event for his family and friends has dredged up another dose of September sadness for me.

***

In September 2023, Tom and I received a letter in the mail from a close friend, who–less than a year before–had moved from the Phoenix area to another part of the country. I’ll call this friend Brett.

Brett’s snail-mail message was an eerie, lengthy, desperate, and personal admission–typed and folded meticulously. In it, Brett recounted a series of voluntary testosterone injections that messed with his body and mind.

He told us: ” … I had consulted with several friends in the medical field, all of whom told me there were no side effects to these testosterone injections and it would raise my numbers. Unfortunately, this did not turn out to be true … and it destroyed me forever.”

I know how much Brett cared for Tom and me, and we certainly listened and cared for him. “Our talks on our hikes always inspired me,” he went on to say. He told us he wished he had made better decisions in his new hometown.

When Tom and I finished reading the letter, we both felt dumbfounded. So much so that Tom ran a search on Brett’s full name. Brett’s obituary popped up.

Through a few subsequent texts and phone calls, we discovered Brett had committed suicide.

Evidently, Brett had left a short stack of letters to close friends in his home. Soon after he died, a member of his family mailed them.

In late September 2023, we heard from one of his brothers. He told us Brett had spoken highly of us. We told him how much we cared about Brett, and how frequently he mentioned his love for his family.

We sent him pictures of Brett, Tom and me banging on drums at the Musical Instrument Museum in Scottsdale. It was a fun day in May 2021, though you couldn’t see our smiles. We were wearing masks. It was the height of Covid.

We will never know the full detail of what happened to Brett or why he felt he had no recourse but to take his life. But, with time, Tom and I became acquainted with Brett’s mother and sister, too.

I am certain that talking with us about Brett provided much-needed comfort, but I can’t presume to know the devastation of what they feel when Brett’s birthday appears on the calendar every January … or when this day–September 8–reignites the fire of grief.

It is an endless nightmare.

***

Depression doesn’t only emanate from one man’s worries over his testosterone levels.

The division in our country in 2026 boggles the mind. So many people live in fear and isolation as our nation’s government–and many of the institutions we once trusted–breeds disarray, pain, anxiety, and uncertainty.

If you know someone who is struggling mightily, I encourage you to reach out to them and lend a listening ear.

Or, if that person in pain is you, please know that you matter. Help is available around the clock.

Call or text 988 to be connected to the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. Do it for yourself. Do it for Brett.

Whether you are facing mental health struggles, emotional distress, alcohol or drug related concerns, or just need to talk with someone, a caring counselor will provide confidential emotional support.

Remember, you are not alone.

A lone blue heron stands at the water’s edge at Chaparral Lake in Scottsdale, Arizona.

Another Orbit

· 10 Comments ·

This is my space, but I feel it has eluded me lately in the blur of life.

Like the game of Chutes and Ladders, in this month of April I’ve moved forward a few paces–writing another meaningful libretto for the next Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus concert, Broadway Lights, in late June–while sliding back to heal from physical and emotional setbacks: two discomforting dermatological surgeries; one momentous funeral for a close cousin.

Grief has a mysterious way of throwing you into another orbit. That is where I live and breathe right now. Part of me stands on the sandy soil of Scottsdale, Arizona. Another piece is spinning somewhere else in the stratosphere.

The loss of Phyllis cut close. Not only because I loved her. But because I know she loved me. And she was a significant part of the fabric of my young life in her proximity to others I loved. Others we loved. All of whom are gone.

Our grandparents, Albert and Louise. Her mother, Violet. My father, Walter. My mother, Helen. Our aunt, Thelma.

Despite my disrupted and sometimes traumatic home life in the 1960s–featuring my father’s bipolar swings and my mother’s evening coping mechanism behind the broadsheet of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch–love existed there in our suburban St. Louis house. Love I felt. Love I excavated. Love I salvaged and carried forward. Love I still feel today.

Phyllis appeared in our home a few times a year. Usually in July to celebrate my birthday in our big backyard and in December in our living room to share Christmas dinner and exchange gifts. She was an integral presence in those moments.

There is one other moment that was purely ours. It happened just once. She must have been twenty. I was ten. She was an undergrad at the University of Missouri in St. Louis (UMSL). We both loved sports. She invited me to join her at an UMSL Rivermen basketball game.

I don’t remember much about it … how we got there, what we said to one another … just that we sat side by side in the stands rooting for the Rivermen. I just remember being proud of her. She was pretty, smart, and fun … and she wanted to spend time with her young cousin. It touched me deeply

As I write this, I realize Phyllis represented a form of stability in my life at that time … an escape to a more even, peaceful place that no one in my family of origin could provide.

Identifying that helps me to realize why this loss has hit so hard.

***

On Wednesday, April 22–Earth Day–my husband and I attended a volunteer recognition event at the Scottsdale Public Library. Alexa, the supervisor of volunteers, recognized Tom for his outstanding-and-popular movie series–and then me for my memoir-writing workshops–at the library in 2025.

We each brought home a certificate, thanking us for our volunteering efforts, along with a tiny succulent plant bearing an important message. We placed both of them on the windowsill of our south-facing sunroom in Scottsdale.

They will serve as a reminder for me that–even in my late sixties–I’m helping others grow in my community.

I know Phyllis, a life-long educator, valued that, too.

Sensitivity

· 8 Comments ·

I pride myself on my sensitivity.

In my book, empathy is an essential quality for writers and human beings in general. It opens the door to developing deep and trusting relationships, but it also exposes us to emotional and physical pain. In this month of April, I have experienced both.

***

On Friday, April 10, Tom and I said goodbye to my cousin Phyllis.

The day before, we flew to St. Louis and enjoyed a nostalgic salad-and-pizza dinner with family in St. Charles, Missouri.

We gathered around a round, wooden table–balancing paper plates piled with food, while sifting through dog-eared photographs of Phyllis with living and deceased members of our Johnson family from the past seventy-five years.

In that space, I felt a meaningful connection with Tom (Phyllis’ husband), Austin and Bryant (her adult sons) and their respective spouses (Amanda and Kelsey).

Meanwhile, Phyllis’ four grandchildren–ranging in age from three to eight years old–danced around the island in Bryant and Kelsey’s kitchen, occasionally patting the head of Bennelli, their large-and-lovable labrador.

Despite the grief associated with the loss of Phyllis, it was a family moment I will cherish. One Phyllis would have loved.

The next morning, Tom and I drove to the funeral at Immanuel Lutheran Church in St. Charles with my sister Diane and brother-in-law Steve.

In a large open space connected to the church, Kelsey and Bryant had carefully assembled still photos–from throughout Phyllis’ life–on boards anchored by easels. They placed them beside her closed casket adorned with sprays of colorful blooms.

Overhead, at the other end of the room on a large screen, other images of Phyllis and her family and friends faded in and out on a large screen TV.

As people began moving into the church for the 11:30 funeral service, I felt anxious. Jumpy.

A mix of nostalgia and peace washed over me, as Tom and I found a place to sit at the far-left end of the fourth pew. Diane and Steve joined us there.

I scanned the program and saw that after readings from the old and new testaments–slotted between two church hymns–I would walk to the lectern to share “Words from the Family”. To give a eulogy. To pay tribute to my closest cousin’s life.

I’ve done a lot of public speaking, presenting, and singing on a multitude of stages in my life–but few things as personal as this. I breathed in deeply to quiet my nerves. I unfolded my prepared words and looked out over a congregation of probably two hundred: Phyllis’ family, friends, teaching colleagues, students, caregivers.

In that moment, my anxiety lifted and flew away. “I am honored today to remember Phyllis. She was my cousin. We were born a decade apart in St. Louis,” I began.

The words and phrases flowed effortlessly from there, as I looked into the tearful eyes of immediate family members–three generations side-by-side spread across the first pew.

“I admired Phyllis’ poise, her style, her intellect, her ambition, her sensibility,” I continued. Before I knew it, I was reciting verses from I poem I wrote for Phyllis: The Love We Shared.

I closed my notes. I left the lectern. I paused to pat Austin, Phyllis’ eldest son, on the shoulder for reassurance, kissed him on the forehead, then returned to the fourth pew and sat beside my husband.

I pulled a wrinkled tissue from my suit pocket, dabbed my eyes, and felt sadness and love reverberate throughout the church.

***

Tom and I returned to Arizona last Saturday.

Today I found myself dealing with another form of sensitivity … sensitivity to the sun.

This morning my dermatologist–in an out-patient procedure called MOHS surgery–removed a small patch of cancerous cells from the bicep of my right arm. As I write this, I am taped up with a sizeable patch over that area.

The good news is he removed all of the problematic tissue. There is no pain, just the anxiety (and the pinch of a few needles for numbing) that immediately preceded this morning’s appointment.

In a few weeks, the remnants of that procedure will fade. My dermatologist will extract the stitches.

I will be left with my fourth such scar–one on each limb ironically–from excisions and dermo procedures.

In a sense, these scars are “badges of honor” for having lived nearly sixty-nine years and survived a series of setbacks.

They are proof that as long as I live–as long as I write, sing, slather on sunscreen, and pause to remember the ones I love–I will also remain super sensitive to the blazing Arizona sun.

Anything But Ordinary

· 8 Comments ·

On this Easter Sunday, it would be easy to pass by the emerging April blooms of a hidden succulent.

But I forced myself to stop, to welcome, to examine nature’s delicate offering outside my desert door.

Though barely visible beneath the eaves of loss and loud proclamations, it is anything but ordinary.

The Love We Shared

· 9 Comments ·

Phyllis was my St. Louis cousin. We were born a decade apart–she in November 1947, me in July 1957. Her mother Violet and my father Walter were twins.

On Tuesday evening, I learned that Phyllis died March 24, 2026. A series of health complications over the past eighteen months ultimately led to her passing. Ironically, she left this world almost exactly twenty-five years to the day after her mother’s passing in March 2001.

When we were children and teens–at every Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas gathering from the late 1950s to the 1970s–my sister Diane, Phyllis and I represented the youngest contingent of the Johnson family lineage. We were loved and nurtured by our parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles.

I felt close to Phyllis. As I recount my earliest family memories, I admired her style, her intellect, her ambition. Years later, in the 1980s when my sons (Nick and Kirk) and hers (Austin and Bryant) were all born within a five-year period, the arc of our parallel lives as parents brought us together whenever I visited St. Louis from my home in the Chicago area.

Then, in the 1990s and early 2000s, both of us were consumed by our busy careers. She was a life-long educator. I was a communication consultant. We lost touch a bit as all four of our parents aged and died.

But the beauty of family and longevity is that–if you are willing and able–you can recapture the loving connections hard-wired in your early years.

Ultimately, Phyllis and I did that. In our retirement years, we traded texts frequently. We cheered for our beloved St. Louis Cardinals through the highs and lows. We shared family news and photos. Phyllis absolutely adored her four grandchildren!

Even though I left my St. Louis home in 1980 to build a life and career in Chicago–and later moved to Arizona with my husband Tom in 2017–the love I feel for my cousin remains.

I’m thankful that I was able to see Phyllis four times in the last decade of her life. In 2016, we celebrated her and her husband Tom’s fortieth wedding anniversary. In 2017, Phyllis and her family met Tom and me for dinner at an Italian restaurant on The Hill in St. Louis.

In 2021, we gathered for a family breakfast and reunion at Phyllis and Tom’s home in St. Charles, Missouri. Then, in September 2025, Tom and I visited Phyllis and Tom one final time at Breeze Park where she was convalescing.

Because Phyllis was a dedicated teacher and reading tutor, she enjoyed reading my books. She also followed my blog and supported my writing journey. In fact, she encouraged me to capture nostalgic memories of my paternal St. Louis family on the page. That became my second book, Tales of a Rollercoaster Operator.

So, in a sense, today I not only feel I’ve lost my cousin. I also feel I’ve lost a literary friend.

At one point, I remember Phyllis telling me she hoped to write a children’s book one day. Though that never happened, I am certain my cousin–a devoted teacher–had a positive impact on the lives of hundreds of children in her long and successful career. Her legacy will ripple through their lives and those of her children and grandchildren.

Today is the home opener for the St. Louis Cardinals. The first pitch will be thrown in about an hour. I will be watching the game on TV from my home in Scottsdale.

When the Cardinals take the field, I will be thinking of my cousin. She was a knowledgeable, lifelong, tried-and-true Redbird fan. I will imagine her rooting for them from a heavenly perch.

But, most of all, I will remember the family moments and the love we shared for nearly seventy years.

***

The Love We Shared

Heaviness in my strong heart,

numb with dread,

tells me this chapter has ended.

But I will always know

the love we shared,

the stories we treasured,

the early etchings of memories

with those who came before us,

those who embraced us,

those who left us long ago,

and the ones we shaped and loved later,

who have carved and created

paths, deeds, and destinies

of their own.

Now it is time

for you to rest.

And, as you go, I remember

the person you were,

the gifts you gave,

the lessons you taught.

But, most of all,

I remember the countless ways

your love has touched our lives.

***

Phyllis (in the center below) was eleven years old–Diane was four, I was one–when the three of us posed on November 26, 1958, at the golden wedding anniversary party for our grandparents, Albert and Louise Johnson.

Thirteen

· 9 Comments ·

It is inevitable that we will lose some of those we love along life’s journey. But all is not lost.

When seminal I’ll-Be-Seeing-You moments, birthdays, anniversaries, songs reappear, we can’t help but acknowledge them.

Over the years, I have chosen to pay tribute to those I love in my memoirs in significant ways. None more than my mother.

These three sentences appear in my first book, From Fertile Ground, which I wrote and published in 2016.

“She died in the wees hours of January 26, 2013, at age eighty-nine and a half. The air was arctic cold and the moon was full. Every time I see a full moon now or experience the change in seasons, I’m reminded of my mother’s undaunted spirit.”

On this — the thirteenth anniversary of her passing — I pause.

I give thanks for Helen Matilda Ferrell Johnson.

I remember her unconditional love, her letters, her wisdom, her level-headedness, her resiliency, her love of nature.

And I do my best to carry on.

I keep writing.

Prosperity

· 8 Comments ·
Photo by Chris F on Pexels.com

Jeremy’s Scottsdale boutique—southwestern decor and inspirational gifts staged under a vaulted ceiling—survived the pandemic. Barely.

Ten thousand stimulus dollars and the generosity of two tanned-and-moneyed benefactors kept his business afloat.

By August 2025, the store’s cycles—busy mild winters; slow sizzling summers—felt normal again. Jeremy did not.

Like the discarded sneaker he passed on the shoulder of Hayden Road heading to work that morning, Jeremy had no mate. At thirty-seven, he felt alone in his fortunate life.

At four p.m., Jeremy wrapped a batik hummingbird plaque for a browsing customer flowing in lavender linen.

As she left, he decided to close early, gathered artsy pillows—Serenity, Tranquility, and Prosperity inscribed in cursive—closed horizontal blinds, and shut off the lights and ceiling fans.

After he adjusted his visor, locked the door, walked to his parking space, and tossed his cushions next to his golf clubs in the backseat of his SUV, Jeremy drove north toward the freshly painted apricot walls of his north Scottsdale condo.

Fifty yards ahead on the shoulder of the road, Nate—a forlorn figure limping in worn flipflops and sporting a ragged, sleeveless Phoenix Suns jersey—caught Jeremy’s attention.

In the dusty desert breeze, Nate balanced a crumpled plea, “Just a Meal,” scribbled on cardboard in black marker.

A stream of drivers rode by. Jeremy did not.

He pressed a button to lower the passenger-side window and applied his brakes.

“Get outta the heat. I’ll spring for a meal,” Jeremy offered.

“Uh … okay,” Nate reached for his tattered suitcase, climbed into the air-conditioned silver interior, and wedged his bag between his knees.

Nate’s weary smile and scrawny build fooled Jeremy momentarily. He imagined his brother David had resurfaced as a ghostly hologram.

“You remind me of …” Jeremy steered through a construction zone “… someone I knew who vanished during Covid.”

Defeated at twenty-nine, Nate conceded “I’ve got my own pitiful story.”

“No judgements here.” Jeremy dodged Nate’s revelation. “Burger and fries?” They approached a drive-up window.

“Bottle of water too.” Nate craved cool liquid to soothe his blistered lips and parched throat.

Jeremy placed their order, paid a rumpled attendant, and edged forward. Another uniformed teen leaned out to hand the food and water to Jeremy. He passed them to Nate.

“Social services could help you,” Jeremy nudged.

“They’re invisible. Just like me,” Nate snapped. He tightened his grip on the sack that held his meal. “Let me out here.”

“Wait. Take one of these,” Jeremy pulled over abruptly. He reached into the backseat and tossed Prosperity in Nate’s direction. “They aren’t selling anyway. Stop by my shop … Daydreamers on Fifth Avenue. I’ll help you find a job.”

Nate paused to consider Jeremy’s offer, shielded his eyes, juggled his dinner, jammed Prosperity into his zipper-less bag next to his single sneaker, and stepped to the curb.

In the cocoon of his aloneness, Jeremy sighed. He closed the passenger door, eased into the right lane, and headed home.

A New Life

· 9 Comments ·

I understand why you feel betrayed,

why you can’t stay any longer,

why you don’t feel safe

in a country ravaged by hate.

It has fallen far beneath the one

you and I once believed was true,

the one you and I thought we knew.

As you fly away to begin anew,

to begin a new adventure,

to begin in a new life in a new country,

those of us who love you,

those of us you leave behind,

hold this gift of friendship high,

as we also hold our breaths.

We wonder what you will learn,

what you will discover in your new land,

what tomorrow will bring

for those of us,

who stay behind

to live each day

in this familiar zone

of divisive uncertainty,

in a country we still love,

as our forefathers

and foremothers did,

all of us that much

closer to midnight.

Photo by Bob Price on Pexels.com

For my friend, who is beginning a new life today. He will remain nameless.

Keep On Swimming

· 9 Comments ·

This hollow ache persists

with every desperate breath,

every tear-stained cheek,

every filthy promise,

every shattered dream,

every shady severance.

As sorry, shallow sands

erode under our bare feet

and wash away at sea

with this tidal wave

of falsities and regrets,

we must link arms,

preserve those struggling

to tread treacherous waters,

and resolve together

to fight these shark attacks,

to keep on swimming.

Photo by Emiliano Arano on Pexels.com

In the Old Days

· 8 Comments ·

In the old days (the pre-Covid days)–just five years ago this week–I hawked my books with my husband by my side at a local author book fair at the Scottsdale Public Library.

We didn’t know about the dark days ahead. Holed up in our cozy condo. Wondering if we and our closest family and friends would survive. Wondering if the race to create a viable vaccine might save us.

Fortunately, science did produce a vaccine that saved lives (for those of us who had the gumption to protect ourselves and others).

We did survive and Tom and I have gone on to create new chapters at the library … him leading several successful film series; me guiding those intent upon writing their own memoirs.

Strangely, those Covid years feel quaint now as our nation disintegrates daily. Tom and I cling to one other, as our nation turns a blind eye toward anyone who is different.

Yes, we have many friends and family who love us. But, to put it bluntly, I don’t feel safe. This experience of living in 2025 in the United States (we aren’t really united) has cued old tapes in my psyche that remind me that–once again–I am living in a straight, white world of shallow masculinity.

I will keep trudging along. Loving my husband. Guiding my adult sons. Speaking my mind. Telling my stories. Holding my closest friends close. Giving to organizations that might make a difference. Advocating for those less fortunate. Donating my time, talents, and voice to the Scottsdale Public Library and the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus.

Most of all–like many of you–I just need to keep breathing today. And, for tomorrow and the next day, I need to save any reserves of energy and sanity I have to fight the good fight.