Psychological Earthquake, Magnitude 8.5, Hits Tulsa
Is that too flippant? Sorry, but that's what it feels like.
I am of course talking about the recent death of Kathy Wentworth. In case you haven't heard (hard to believe in the the days of the interweb), she died April 18th of complications from cervical cancer. There were a few people who knew about her condition for close to a year, but it was Kathy's wish that the news not be spread around so we respected her wishes.
It still seems very unreal to me, and yesterday I realized there are a couple of reasons why.
First, I learned that Kathy had cancer while talking to her on the phone, and while I spoke with here several times, she was always worn out or just feeling sick from the chemotherapy, and she didn't feel like having company (Kathy was a very private person), so even though I knew about her condition, I never actually saw her again. The last time I saw her she was a laughing, happy person. Certainly not the worst way to remember a person, but if she'd have asked me to visit, I'd have dropped everything.
Second, this whole situation is new to me. I suppose I've been lucky in this. I've lost relatives before, but they were all far older (grandparents), and friends, but they had passed away after I had lost contact with them, so the impact wasn't quite so hard. But this time, there has been no distance. The wound is fresh. The pain is deeper.
Kathy was special to many people for many reasons, but if you will, I will tell you why she was special to me. There was a time when, due to circumstances that I will not bore you with, I was losing contact with a lot of my friends. It was not my choosing, just the way of the world, I suppose. Kathy was one of the few of whom I didn't stop hearing from, which is actually a bit odd in retrospect, in that we hadn't been all that close before. But Kathy invited me to OSFW (Oklahoma Science Fiction Writers), even though I wasn't (and still am not) a writer. She invited me out with her husband and friends (who in turn became -MY- friends) to go to dinner or go to a movie. And of course, we worked on Conestoga together, sometimes seeming to hold it together with chewing gum and Duct Tape (which, BTW pretty much describes the Special effects department of the Penguin Playhouse). Ironically, as I write this, I realize that this weekend is the second anniversary of the last Conestoga. Hmm... So, Kathy was a person who helped to drag me back into the world. I guess I owe it to her to stay here.
I ask that everyone please keep her husband Richard in your thoughts at this time.
And so, in closing, and to help keep myself (and others) here in the world, I'll borrow the words of someone who -IS- a writer; Suzette Haden Elgin:
Consolation:
There is only one way out of grief;
that is to go though it and beyond it.
Turn away from grief and it will follow you everywhere;
it will be your shadow even in darkness.
Turn toward it now and know that it can be encountered,
that it can be learned from,
that it can be grown through,
that it can be surpassed.
Move now, without fear or hesitation,
toward the borders of sorrow,
and pass through them.
Goodbye, Kathy
I am of course talking about the recent death of Kathy Wentworth. In case you haven't heard (hard to believe in the the days of the interweb), she died April 18th of complications from cervical cancer. There were a few people who knew about her condition for close to a year, but it was Kathy's wish that the news not be spread around so we respected her wishes.
It still seems very unreal to me, and yesterday I realized there are a couple of reasons why.
First, I learned that Kathy had cancer while talking to her on the phone, and while I spoke with here several times, she was always worn out or just feeling sick from the chemotherapy, and she didn't feel like having company (Kathy was a very private person), so even though I knew about her condition, I never actually saw her again. The last time I saw her she was a laughing, happy person. Certainly not the worst way to remember a person, but if she'd have asked me to visit, I'd have dropped everything.
Second, this whole situation is new to me. I suppose I've been lucky in this. I've lost relatives before, but they were all far older (grandparents), and friends, but they had passed away after I had lost contact with them, so the impact wasn't quite so hard. But this time, there has been no distance. The wound is fresh. The pain is deeper.
Kathy was special to many people for many reasons, but if you will, I will tell you why she was special to me. There was a time when, due to circumstances that I will not bore you with, I was losing contact with a lot of my friends. It was not my choosing, just the way of the world, I suppose. Kathy was one of the few of whom I didn't stop hearing from, which is actually a bit odd in retrospect, in that we hadn't been all that close before. But Kathy invited me to OSFW (Oklahoma Science Fiction Writers), even though I wasn't (and still am not) a writer. She invited me out with her husband and friends (who in turn became -MY- friends) to go to dinner or go to a movie. And of course, we worked on Conestoga together, sometimes seeming to hold it together with chewing gum and Duct Tape (which, BTW pretty much describes the Special effects department of the Penguin Playhouse). Ironically, as I write this, I realize that this weekend is the second anniversary of the last Conestoga. Hmm... So, Kathy was a person who helped to drag me back into the world. I guess I owe it to her to stay here.
I ask that everyone please keep her husband Richard in your thoughts at this time.
And so, in closing, and to help keep myself (and others) here in the world, I'll borrow the words of someone who -IS- a writer; Suzette Haden Elgin:
Consolation:
There is only one way out of grief;
that is to go though it and beyond it.
Turn away from grief and it will follow you everywhere;
it will be your shadow even in darkness.
Turn toward it now and know that it can be encountered,
that it can be learned from,
that it can be grown through,
that it can be surpassed.
Move now, without fear or hesitation,
toward the borders of sorrow,
and pass through them.
Goodbye, Kathy