When That Damn Thing Happened to Kay

Donn was over seventy before he knew what true pain felt like—the kind of pain that makes you want to shout in God’s face.

illustration by Beck Seamons

Donn was over seventy before he knew what true pain felt like—the kind of pain that makes you want to shout in God’s face. 

He had felt plenty of pain before that: the pain of his drunken father’s boot heel coming down on his forehead as a child; the pain of losing a nephew to suicide and then a sister to alcoholism. All that stuff hurt. But it wasn’t until his wife forgot how to balance a checkbook, started wearing a diaper, and failed to recall her own husband’s name that Donn felt true pain. 

“I can’t believe this damn thing happened to Kay,” he said to his grandson as they sat on the patio watching a Colorado sunset. “She was always such a sweetheart to everyone. There’s no way she deserves this.” But dementia and old age don’t spare sweethearts. No matter how fiercely Donn wrestled with that reality, he lost every time. And it took his breath away. 

He sobbed in silence, unable to take in air or exhale for a few seconds. He looked up from the concrete ground and his grandson could see the shock on Donn’s face. This would happen to Donn periodically. Every time it was as if he was learning for the first time about a new kind of pain. And every time it shocked him to know that pain like that even existed. 

His bony shoulders propped up a short-sleeve, button-up shirt that was now too large for his shrinking frame. He fumbled for a cigarette in his shirt pocket. A smoke would calm his nerves and stop him from crying. “These damn bad habits will control you,” he said.

“Are you pretty sure there’s an afterlife?” his grandson asked.

“Oh yes,” he said. “I’m sure of that. I’m just not sure where I’ll end up when all the cards are down. I believe in God, but I’ve cussed him out more than a few times. I just get so mad sometimes that he let this damn thing happen to Kay. I’ll probably be on the hook for all this bitterness.”

“I’m sure you’ll be alright. You’re less bitter than you think.”

“I’m worthless these days, though. I’m just a blubbering waste. I’ve watched so many damn ball games on that television in there. I don’t do anything worthwhile.”

“You take care of grandma.”

“I don’t even do that anymore. The nurse comes in three times a day. I’m too weak and sad to even help.” 

He put out his cigarette and strained to stand up. “I can’t seem to control myself these days. I’ve got no control, and it drives me crazy. One minute I’m fine and the next I’m blubbering. I need to toughen up. I’ll toughen up here soon. I just need to get myself together. Thanks for listening to your old grandpa tonight.”

He went inside and fell asleep. 

Two days later the nurse showed up like she did every morning to wake Kay. But Kay didn’t wake up. And she never did again. 

Donn was more shocked than he had ever been. He stared at her body and learned for the first time about a new kind of pain. “This can’t happen,” he said. “This isn’t real.” But it happened, and it was real.

He smoked and cried all afternoon. 

Two weeks later he watched two men at the funeral home in Wyoming close her casket and carry it away. That evening he could only bring himself to drink half a beer, but he was happy with how the day had gone and pleased that Kay got the service she deserved. His grandson drove him back to his motel. “What will life be like now on the Colorado farm?” his grandson asked. 

“I don’t know. I really don’t know. I’ve been too scared to think about it, so I haven’t.” 

Two months later Donn’s grandson visited him at the Colorado farm. They drove to Wyoming to see Donn’s sister. She was unresponsive and about to die. Donn sat next to her bed. “I sure love you, Lyla,” he said. “You were such a little sweetheart.” He felt sad and sentimental but not shocked. When they left the hospice center he also felt stressed. 

“I wish I wasn’t the executor of this will,” he told his grandson. “I’m too old to read through records and paperwork.” He struggled to ease himself into the low-riding passenger seat of the car. “Getting old isn’t worth a shit,” he said. They drove across town to Lyla’s house to read the handwritten will and take a nap. 

After reading carefully with a magnifying glass, Donn laid down to rest. His grandson heard him from across the hall. He felt bad for listening but couldn’t resist. He listened as Donn spoke out loud to Kay and then to Jesus. “Please just get me through these next few days,” he said. “Help me toughen up a little here. I just need to get tough for the next little while.”

That evening they stood at the end of the driveway and watched the sun set behind Casper’s flat, brown mountains. The sky was brighter and more orange than the tip of Donn’s cigarette. 

The next morning Donn saw his grandson spread peanut butter on toast. “Let’s go down the street and have breakfast at that diner,” Donn said. “That’ll be better than toast.”

Donn ordered ham, hash browns, and coffee. He ate slowly and in silence. He chewed and savored every bite. His appetite only allowed him to eat a third of his food. He slid the rest onto his grandson’s plate and leaned back in his chair while he sipped his coffee. “That’s good coffee,” he said. The waitress walked by and refilled his mug. 

“Do you still get mad at God?” his grandson asked.

“Oh no,” he said. “I think I’m at peace with all that now. He’s been good to me . . . yeah, I’m at peace with all that now.”

Donn’s grandson flew to Boston for Christmas and while he was there saw a homeless man eat a plate of freshly fried fish on the curb. It made him think of his grandpa in Colorado. The homeless man did not seem to control very much. He was probably addicted to a substance. But on that day he controlled the way he ate that fish. He ate slowly, chewing and savoring every bite. 

The grandson flew back from Boston and drove to Colorado to see his grandpa. He stayed for two days. As he packed his bag to leave, he looked out the window and saw Donn on the patio with a hood over his head. He was braving the morning cold for a smoke. 

The grandson walked outside. “How are things going out here?”

“I’m sitting in my own shit,” Donn said. “Not being able to control your own bowels is a load of shit. Literally.” He now had less control over his bowels than his emotions. 

He finished smoking and then went inside. His grandson loaded the car and drove to town for gas. When he got back, Donn was sitting in the living room. He had showered and traded out his soiled Levis for a pair of dark green scrubs he had stolen from the hospital during a recent stint in the ICU. 

They sat together for ten more minutes. 

“I hope you won’t mourn when I’m gone,” Donn said. “It won’t be long for me now. But I hope you won’t mourn. I’ll be alright.”

Donn’s grandson stood and reached out for a handshake, but Donn struggled out of his chair for a more proper goodbye. He placed both hands on his grandson’s shoulders. “You’ve been a special boy to me,” he said. 

They embraced. The grandson walked to the door with Donn shuffling behind him. He opened the sliding door and stepped out. “I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me,” he told his grandpa, hoping one insignificant phrase could convey all that he felt. He started to slide the door, and just before it closed, Donn reached sharply toward the large glass pane with his hands and then pulled them back. Maybe he wanted to help close the door but then decided not to. 

His grandson mourned for 90 miles before he stopped to pee at a lonely Wyoming gas station at the top of a hill where the wind seemed to blow harder and colder than anywhere in the world.

Back in Colorado the day was calm. Donn sat on the south-facing patio smoking a cigarette. The sun came down warm on his face. He felt his bowels move again and since he didn’t have the energy to take another shower he knew he would have to sit in his shit a little longer. But he was at peace with all that now.