Obituary

Albany newspaper Obituary

Obituary

John D. Linville was born in Colorado Springs, CO. on November 1, 1944 and passed away on July 4, 2009. He graduated from Oregon College of Education and spent time working as director of the Salem Head Start, and later as a truant officer for Linn Benton E.S.D. He retired in 2008 and was preparing for a joyful life filled with family and friends. He was a lover of animals, a friend to many, an avid reader, and an accomplished golfer, rafter, and softball player. He enjoyed traveling and clam digging with his wife Karen Kolen-Linville and tending to their immense garden. He is survived by siblings Bill, Doug, Beth, and Linda. He is preceded in death by his parents and sisters, Joan and Mary. His offspring include Aimie (Jon) Hunter and their three grandpa adoring grandchildren. Services on 07-08-09, 2:00 pm, at Fisher Funeral Home: 306 Washington SW. Albany, Oregon. Reception following at John and Karen’s home in Albany. In lieu of flowers, please make donations to Evergreen Hospice c/o Fisher Funeral.

The sun does rise

The sun does indeed rise after tragedy. I am typing to a glorious sunrise filled with the scent of freshly cut hay and birds chirping. The light is playing through the shadows of Sherwood Forest, dancing across the grass. Life does go on. My heart hurts and my mind dramatizes with the thoughts that this sunrise my dad will never see. Truthfully, he hasn't seen any for days and even weeks. His passing is all so final.

I hate the thought that he is in a morgue, keeping his body cooled and in limbo. I hate him being alone. I want to be with him but know that I am not strong enough for the coldness and stiffness of his body. I chose to remain in the room as the funeral people wrapped and transferred him into the body bag. Karen and her sister didn't want to be there, but I felt like I couldn't leave him. I kept thinking that these were the last few precious moments I would ever have with him. I couldn't leave, even had I wanted to.

Dad died

He died this morning at 2:20 am. I was really hoping he wouldn't die on the 4th...but logically I know that any day would be hard.

Jon and the kids are still in Seattle and I am thinking that I will drive back today and return in a few days for the funeral. I suppose it hasn't really sunk in yet, but I have been preparing for this day since December 21 when he was diagnosed with the three tumors. I am thankful that I got the last six months to prepare and give him extra attention.

He truly was a great and gentle man who loved all animals, was a family counselor, kept active golfing and river rafting, and loved to travel. He grew up in an incredibly racist and abusive family and overcame so much. He was the first in his family to graduate from college and create a new life. He was never abusive (never even spanked me) and went on to create a beautiful life for himself. I am astounded by how many friends come and visit him...all with stories of what a great man he was. He was so kind and I am so saddened that my kids will not know him.

I am scared

I spoke with Karen on Monday and she had said my dad was going down hill quickly but was still having moments of clarity. Today I received a phone call and she told me that he was "failing quickly" and her sister told me that he isn't responding to anyone. She mentioned that if I were to come and visit, he probably wouldn't even know I was there. The doctors have increased his morphine and he is completely unresponsive.

Trip

I had a good encounter with my dad today. True, he is stuck 24 hours a day in a hospital bed and not very communicative, but I saw peaks into him...and am so thankful.

Despite this, he held my hand (very firmly) this evening after dinner. He even told Karen, "someones cold hand woke me up!" This sense of humor has been absent and it was good to have him back. I was talking to him about coming to visit next weekend and was wondering aloud if we should stay in a hotel for all or partially all of our stay. He said, "the creatures..." and I said, "are you referring to my offspring as creatures?" and he said, "yes."

I asked him if he had a nice visit with Kari and Kevin and he said, "OH YES!" and, "Very much so." He told Kari (my step sister) today that "you were never far from my heart." I was so touched by this force of emotion with which he was able to articulate.

I asked him tonight if he believes in God and he said, "I think so." I brought up his green jeans God seeing...but he remained mute and didn't say anything.

He seems to enjoy listening to the Oldies station on the TV and it has been playing for the past two days. He points out singers, indicating that he likes Neil Diamond.

He enjoyed the strawberry pie that Karen made for dessert tonight and always drinks a large glass of milk with each meal. He eats only tablespoons of food at a time. Maybe a 1/2 cup of food in every meal.

Club

There is a weird club that I am wanting to be part of: the dying parent club and no one who hasn't experienced it is allowed. I am being melodramatic but I truly notice a deep desire to connect with others who have gone through this. I immediately feel a kinship and sense of empathy. I feel closer to them because we share this horrible bond. I look at the words that I just typed "horrible bond" and wonder if I am being dramatic again. Death is inevitable, so it shouldn't be a surprise. In the end, we all die, but it just feels so isolating to keep living long after your loved one's pass. Feeling a sense of aloneness that hasn't hit me with the deaths of other family members.

This parent dying thing sucks. Death forces most to look at their mortality, but a parents death causes you to examine deeper. You are now alone in the world, without your parents (hopefully) undying support and love. It feels very isolating. The ripple's of their death go far beyond me and touch my children's lives. This is one of the aspects that hurt the most. My youngest children will never know the man who was my father. They will always be grandfather less on their mom's side. It isn't fair and my heart aches for their ignorance of this great man.

Scared

Though I am scared and terribly saddened by my dad's upcoming death, I am also frightened by how it will change me.

Will it make me colder, less flexible, less compromising in life. Will I live life with a, "Life's too short" philosophy; abandoning my marriage and cares? Or will I secretly begin to resent my husband more; for all of the ways he is unlike my peaceful and centered father? Will I seek out men with these qualities, hoping to feel a piece of my dad surrounding me? I am fearful of the unknown and concerned how his death will rock my world.

I can't lose this loving man in my life. He is the opposite of all the masculine cliche's. He is calm, fun, open minded, and settled. He doesn't make jokes about politics, hunting, and women (at least never in front of me). He may laugh at some jokes...but he never initiates. He is patient with kids, spending much of his career counseling young kids and teens. He is goodness and I always knew he would become a better grandfather than father. He doesn't have the chance, now, and that makes me so mournful for all of us.

Hospice

This picture was taken of my dad in August 2007 at our first ever Linville Family Reunion. He looks so happy, don't you think?

I just received a cell phone message from Karen telling me that she needed to talk to me and that my dad was now on hospice. She said his health had really declined and needed to let me know what was going on. I called her back, but she didn't answer.

I had a mini breakdown over this. The kind where the sobs come out in whimpers. I feel so anguished and alone. I am frustrated with myself for not spending more time with him in January, asking him all the things I had to time to ask him then. He isn't able to hold a coherent question at this point and I missed my window. I wish someone would have told me to stay with him. I wish someone would have insisted on this.

I plan to travel back down this weekend. The question becomes as to whether I should take the kids or not. I suppose he I will ask Karen about this and proceed from there.

It is interesting how I avoid calling. Maybe because I don't know her that well, possibly because it is painful to face, and I will let myself off the hook a bit and say that I am busy with three kids and a family. I know that I will read this words months and years from now and frown at how little I called. I don't forgive myself for this.

Confused

Why haven't I written? Sometimes it is too painful, sometimes I am too busy, and sometimes I just want to be "normal" and not deal with such writings and thoughts. When I say this I instantly feel remorseful, since I know the day is fast approaching that I won't have the option to write about my experiences with my dad...while he is still alive. I follow this with: "Is he really still alive?" I am unsure how to answer that. He certainly is half alive, if there is such a thing.

This past weekend Jon, I, and the younger kids went down for my step sister's baby shower and to visit with my dad. I am ashamed to say that I don't know what to say to him as he reclines in his leather chair, watching baseball games all day long. He smiles at the kids playing, seeming to take a special liking to Georgia and her exuberance. I want to ask him what he thinks, but fear he won't be able to articulate what I am hoping for. Instead, I feel comforted that my kids have brought him joy during these days. It breaks my heart that they won't know him...truly makes me so sad that I can't begin to address that at this time. I push that to the back of my thoughts.

I am saddened to report that my step mother is feeling burnt out. She doesn't want to undergo another chemo round for him, beginning next week. She mentioned that she doesn't want him to die during Christmas, which is the timeline the doctor's gave him. I don't think she expected to be married to a man who refuses to use the toilet because he is too weak or gets confused and pees in bed, thinking he is in the bathroom. I get the sense she wants permission from me to forgo the chemo. I gave her this permission with a heavy heart. As his primary caregiver, I feel she is best suited to make the call. However I can't help but feel that I am cheating myself and signed his death certificate. My heart aches to imagine a world without him.

He ate fairly well this weekend, enjoying KFC and an extra helping of mashed potatoes and gravy. I hear that he scarfed down a large portion of clams at a clambake they held the night we arrived. His diabetes is worse and his numbers are too high which is causing him to have to take extra shots of insulin. He is stubborn and keeps eating licorice and cookies.

I write about his food habits because I want to remember every minute detail of him. Possibly I will feel lonely and want to eat what he enjoyed, thinking that this will bring me closer to him. I fear these small proclivities are what will be lost in time and I need to document them with these words. I may look back 15 years from now and realize how naive I was. Regardless, it is all I know how to do.

I can write about his dirty and jagged fingernails, but those remind me of his sickness. His hands seem tiny and frail, more like a preteens hands than a man's hand. His eyelashes are sparse, probably as a result of older age and chemo. His teeth embarrass me with their yellowness and obvious crowns. I am ashamed of myself for thinking such thoughts.

Food is easier to write about. I want to remember him and his preferences. I want him to be human, alive, and available. The closest that I can come is through his food.

Day 2: Cruise

Today I invited my dad to high tea. I was pleased that he wanted to go and that he was so excited. I picked him up in his wheelchair and wheeled him to the tea room. The entire way, while pushing him, tears streamed down my face. I see all of these able bodied elderly who are so unlike him. He is weak and withered. He can't get out of any chair without help, and even then it takes him at least 30 seconds to move around. He shakes and is so gone.

We spent 30 minutes at tea and he ate two plates of sweets. I don't care that he has diabetes, I just want to please him. He is dying and if I can make any moment a little sweeter (no pun intended :) I will. I will get him anything he wants. Sadly, all he really seems to want is to sleep. His time is fast approaching and it very apparent to me that his body wants to go. He isn't hungry, isn't even thirsty. His body has given up.

I love this man and it brings me pain to watch him wither. I have taken to kissing his tumor scar on a few occasions. It is as long as my index finger and travels horizontally on his speckled bald head. I can't kiss it and instead kiss near it. It scares and upsets me.

After tea I tucked him into bed with extra blankets. I have said goodbye to the child I once was, only a few short months ago. The child who could run home if I ever needed help. He has become the child and I am his keeper. It is unsettling.

The irony of life is how quick it all goes; how fast our children grow and how our health is stolen from us without a fight. My dad has been robbed and I have become fatherless.

It is so painful to watch and sometimes I feel like I am living outside of my body.

Cruise

I had a mini breakdown today. More like a big breakdown, though I hate to admit it. While checking in for our cruise, I felt so helpless. My father is so feeble and it breaks my heart to see his hands shaking, watch his vacant stare, and witness him unable to walk. We didn't have a wheelchair for him to board the cruise (but do on the ship) and that was a huge mistake. He could barely walk and I know it was like climbing Mt. Everest for him to walk the "plank" for lack of a better word.

I want to scream at all of the people who I witness be so self centered around him. He is obviously unwell, bent over a cane, and they storm by him trying to jump onto an elevator or beat him to his place in line. Don't they see? Of course they don't, and I curse their ignorance. Or, maybe I am jealous of it.

I wish I could report I had some relevations from my father. Mostly we sit in silence. He stares into space. I try and bring up happy memories for him and reassure him that I am thankful for the example he provided me; traveling to Mexico and golfing on Pebble Beach. He is just a shell of his former self and I know that he wouldn't want to see the man he has become. In some ways, his death will bring him peace.

I have a well in my throat writing those words: "His death..."

Tonight, at dinner, he had a diarrhea accident. Karen had to take him back to the room and change his diaper. I welled up with tears at the table and hoped no one noticed. It breaks my heart to part with this once strong and vibrant man.

My birthday

My birthday was really hard on me. There was no phone call from my dad, just a card inscribed with a scribbled hand, "love you always, Dad." I appreciate the thought, the time it took to write, but it isn't his handwriting. It isn't him and it makes me cry.

I went to the chiropractor and sobbed the entire way home. Probably because I was alone in the car, it was a beautiful sunny day (which just makes me feel sadder for his upcoming loss of life) and I am stressed beyond belief. I literally sobbed while driving, tears streaming down my face. I am so devestated that this is it. How can that be? It seems surreal and too sharp, painful all at once.

I most likely will never have a birthday with my daddy. Even though we didn't spend many birthdays together...did we ever? I still am beyond sad that I will never get the possibility to. When my dad was healthy I had choices and possibilities. Those were stolen from me in December and I will never be the same again.

It isn't the same

Why, when people are trying to comfort me, do they equate my sorrow with another? Tonight my husband referred to a friend's poetic words concerning the loss of his grandmother. I immediately took offense at the assumption that my loss is similar to the loss of one's grandparents. I am sure my husband didn't mean to insinuate that, but it isn't the first time someone has said something similar. It makes me want to scream, "Don't EVER tell me that losing a parent in your thirties is the same!" It is better to say nothing at all.

I want to be all understanding and appreciative but I can't, I just feel angry when people try to equate my loss.

Losing a parent is a loss most deal with, but not in their thirties. It hurts and the future of my dreams and my children's memories are at stake. It does not equate to losing ones grandparent.

Friends

I don't know much of the man that my father is. I know that he doesn't hunt (would never hunt), he abhors cigarette smoke, he enjoys the sun, and he leads a simple and honest life. I believe that you can gain a lot of information from the people who surround someone. The people who complete your life. My dad has friends that he has gathered from every job, every neighbor, and every softball team he has touched. Even three months after his diagnosis, there are still two bouquets of fresh flowers in his home~sent recently with well wishes from concerned friends and co-workers. He is loved and appreciated and I take that as a very large gift of comfort. He is surrounded by goodness.

On a similar note, so am I. Maybe this is his lasting gift that he has bestowed upon me: bring good people into your life, live a simple life, and be grateful.

Driving

My dad's wife, Karen, gave Kate her first driving lesson today. My dad should have been the one teaching her (as he did me) but he is unable to drive on his own. I know it is a little thing, but I just wanted my dad to be able to teach my daughter something. My dad wasn't around much to teach me many skills, but driving was one of those...and it meant a lot to me for him to be able to do the same for Kate. It was one of those bittersweet days: the pang of not seeing my dad waving from the car, but instead sitting inside the garage by himself. I watched my baby grow up today and my dad wasn't able to share in it. That hurt.

Visiting Dad

Today I drove down to see my dad for the first time in 6 weeks. He was sitting in his new leather recliner, warming himself by the fire. He was unable to get up and greet me but smiled from across the way. It breaks my heart to see him so incapacitated. In his previous life, a year ago, he would have done a little jig with his feet and welcomed me with a bear hug. He would have been grabbing every item of my luggage with force~insisting that I not carry anything but my pillow or purse into his home. Those days are gone.

He is bloated, like a bull frog. His neck is puffy and even his eyes seem squinted. His wife says that he has lost alot of weight but he doesn't look like it. She says that he is down to 165 pounds and his legs have atrophied. I believe her, but it is hard to comprehend when his belly is so bloated and his neck so full.

He has developed diabetes from the chemo and now takes insulin. Karen gives him a nightly shot and checks his blood sugar twice a day. This was news to me and I feel so removed from his care. I have a difficult time keeping straight the chemo and non-chemo days, the pills, the side effects.

I ate dinner with him tonight at the table. I find it hard to look into his face. I don't want to cry for the man he has become, but I want to miss this. I feel guilty for thinking such thoughts because I know that all too soon he will be gone.

The bright spot of today was he wanting to go over our cruise excursions together. He had highlighted things he thought that I would like to do. He highlighted a horseback ride on the beach...and so I will go.

Little Things

I didn't know my dad (and still don't) growing up. I spent one week in the summer, one week at Christmas, and 1/2 of spring break with him. That doesn't add up to a whole lot. My mom moved me to another state when I was three years old, it may have well been another country. This is a decision that I don't blame her for, but would never do to my own children.

Those weeks don't add up to much but this is what I remember~
1. eating sugary cereal and white bread which were foods my mom would never have fed me
2. roller skating around his kitchen floor to my hearts content
3. being given a tape recorder as a five year old and listening to his stories on tape~what I would give to have those old recordings, now
4. going to Disneyland at the age of four
5. traveling to the baja peninsula in Mexico at the age of twelve
6. golfing on pebble beach together~and me not appreciating it
7. being taught to drive on his 1970's yellow Datsun pickup
8. white water rafting from our self taught guide
9. knowing that my "chicken legs" were identical to my father's
10. eating white bread sandwiches with cheap lunch meat, and loving them
11. hearing the only advice he ever gave me, "Don't smoke or I will break your legs!"

Cruise Talk

I spoke with my dad last night and he wanted to share his good news...

He went to OHSU yesterday for a scan and found that not only has his main tumor not grown, but it may have shrunk a bit as well. He was very excited by this news.

I say that "he" was very excited because I had to feign enthusiasm. I should be more heartened by this news, and I suppose it buys him time, but I feel so saddened everytime I talk to him. It is painful hearing him search for words or thoughts and whole sentences. It is painful to constantly talk about the cruise. It seems to be the only thing he can talk with me about and I just want to scream, "Cruise be damned...let's talk about something real!" Or, maybe I just want him to talk about how much he loves me and how I will be okay in the end. Remind me that I am strong and wise and good...and I will survive this. Make me feel better, please. Because I don't feel very well right now.

Talking to him on the phone seems to be difficult for him. He gets easily distracted and a bit confused. He says that it takes all of his "faculties to concentrate and walk, let alone talk." I was impressed that he said "faculties" and took that as a good sign. He is excited to show me all of the cruise pamphlets and discuss the cruise. Everytime I call he wants to talk about it, go over which deck I am on, etc.

I will be seeing him this weekend and will update with more information and pictures next week.

Alone

Here I am, alone. I feel like I am slipping away, tears streaming down my face to this silent hole. I don't want to talk to anyone, all they have is sympathy. The only person I want to talk with is an ex boyfriend who lost his dad in his late teens. This doesn't seem to be good for my marriage, so I am alone.

I cry everyday. Sometimes more. I drive around town wiping tears out of my eyes, thinking that this may be my dad's last spring. His last time seeing daffodils emerge from the earth. The last time he sets his clock forward. It is ridiculous for me to worry about all of this finality. It is what it is, but it is just so gut wrenching for me.

I put on a brave face, brush people off when they mention my dad. And, now, no one really does. My mom mentions him and asks "How is your daddy?" which makes me want to cringe since it is so sugary sweet and she has never before referred to him as my "daddy." It was always, "your dad said he would pay for your college" or "when is your dad coming up to visit?" Now that he is dying, he has become my daddy~reducing me to a young child. I don't need to be reminded that I am not a young child but secretly feel infantile most of the time.

I think what I am most sad about is the future. I feel like I can lose him right now, but I am so sad at what all he and I will miss. I don't know him and always imagined that I would get to know him. Now it is too late. The tumors have robbed him of himself. He isn't the same and he won't ever be. He doesn't play softball, play cards, golf, or white water raft anymore. He now sits in a chair with potty pads on it and stares into space.

Where do I go from here?