Head To Toe

HEAD TO TOE: All Happens Below The Waist 

the pain is unbearable. There is really nothing that can be
done except to endure that pain. Sometimes I can rub
some cream on it like Ben-Gay or Aspircream, and if gets
bad enough, I’ll have to take a pain pill to help ease it. At
times the pain feels like a jolt of electricity in my feet;
even on the toes that have been amputated. That’s when
the phantom pain kicks in. Sometimes in high gear.

For now, the painful neuropathy is kept at bay,
although I still feel the tingling, every hour of every day.
Some days are better than others, though, so that’s a big
plus.

 
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On  Wednesday,  July  9,  2014,  I  came  home  from 

Carlos’ around 9:00 in the evening. During the day I had 

been to Mom’s apartment and cleared a few things out to 

bring  them  home,  one  being  her  4”  thick  foam  mattress 

pad that she wasn’t using anymore. I have no idea what I 

was  going  to  do  with  it,  but  that’s  not  germane  to  the 

story. What is important though, is to know how I folded 

it up so I could fit it in the backseat of the car. 

After  coming  home  with  the  folded  up  mattress 

pad,  I  had  to  find  some  way  of  getting  it  out  of  the  car 

and  into  the  house,  specifically  into  my  bedroom  which 

was  the  converted  garage,  2  steps  down  from  the  main 

part of the house. 

I  dragged  the  pad  out  of  the  car,  across  the 

driveway,  into  the  house,  a  sharp  left  u-turn  in  the 

hallway,  and  down  those  2  steps  to  lean  the  pad  against 

the wall. 

I was home free. 

 
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No…I  wasn’t.  When  I  leaned  the  pad  against  the 

wall  and  let  go,  the  pad flung open and threw me across 

the 20’ width of the garage concrete floor. It all happened 

in  the  blink  of  an  eye  and  I  ended  up  inches away from 

hitting  my head on the nightstand. Pain like I have never 

felt  before  in  my  life  shot  through  my  right leg. I didn’t 

know what part of my leg was injured; the hip, the knee, 

the ankle…I couldn’t tell. 

Married only a year and now I’m damaged goods. 

I  looked  for  the  phone  which  was  usually  on  my 

nightstand, but I had remembered I had left it on the bed, 

just  inches  away  from  where I fell. I crawled to the bed, 

lifted myself up with my arms, but there was no phone on 

the  bed.  I  looked  around,  and  4  feet  behind  me  on  the 

desk  sat  the phone. It must have been several minutes of 

staring at the phone from where I lay, with me wondering 

how  on  earth  I  would  get  to  travel  that  4  feet  from  the 

bedside to the desk to get the phone to call for help.  

 
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It  took  me  about  half  an  hour,  literally,  to  crawl 

from  the  bed  to  the  desk. I was completely paralyzed so 

the only way I could do this was to crawl on my stomach 

with  an  over-hand  pulling  with  my  arms.  (Are  you 

getting  the  visual??)  When  I  reached  the  phone, 

practically  gasping  for  a  breath,  I  managed  to  call 

Carlos…and  this  was  about  9:45,  45  minutes  after  the 

fall. 

“Help me!” I said. “I think I’ve broken my hip” 

“What happened??” He said. 

“I was thrown across the room by the mattress pad. 

Hurry please!” 

Within  a  half  an  hour,  Carlos  was  there. 

Meanwhile,  I  had  managed  to  get  myself  sitting  in  the 

chair  (that was a sight, I’m sure, to see me try and crawl 

up to the chair to sit). There I was sitting on the left side 

of  my  butt…in  more  pain  than  I’ve  ever  known,  not 

knowing what to do, but I knew Carlos would. 

 
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He came in and immediately said, “we need to call 

911.  Something’s  not  right”.  The  time  was  now  about 

10:30 and by time EMT got there it must have been close 

to 11:00 and it had been 2 hours since the fall. 

Emergency  techs  got  there  fully  expecting  to  see 

my  mother  there,  needing  help…they  were  used  to  the 

address  from  her  many  falls  and  trips to ER…”Where’s 

your  mom?”  they  said.  “No,  this  isn’t  for  her.  It’s  for 

me.” 

They did a quick assessment of what had happened 

and gave me some morphine to help with the pain. I gotta 

say, that’s good stuff. 

They  managed  somehow  to  lift  me  onto  their 

gurney  but  not  without  screaming  to  wake  the 

neighborhood,  and  take  me  out  of  the house and put me 

in  the  ambulance  for  the  short  ride  to  Sherman  Oaks 

Hospital. 

After  unloading  me  into  the  emergency  room 

writhing  in  pain,  I  was  examined  and  questioned,  and 

 
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then  x-rayed.  The  x-ray  tech  was  either  new  or 

inexperienced at this type of patient because she couldn’t 

position me correctly enough on the table without pulling 

sheets  and  blankets  in  the  direction  she  wanted  to  take 

the x-ray. Carlos had to help her pull the blanket and hold 

it so she could go back and push the button. 

Half  an  hour  later,  the  doctor  came  in  and  very 

nonchalantly  said, “Your right hip is broken at the femur 

neck.  It’s  not  a  clean  break,  but  shattered  and splintered 

and  it  looks  like  you’ll  need  to  have  a  hip  replacement. 

He said, “Don’t worry. We do this all the time.” 

“Not to ME!!” I replied. 

Shit.  This  is  something  I'd  expect  my  mother  or 

grandmother to do: Break a hip. But certainly not me. 

After  that  dreadful  news,  I was taken upstairs to a 

room  where  a  surgeon  would  see  me  the  next  day. 

Meanwhile,  I  laid  in  bed  in  agony  with  a  broken  hip 

waiting for countless hours before a doctor would see me 

Thursday  morning.  I  had  been  kept  as  comfortable  as 

 
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possible,  all  things  considered,  throughout  the  night. 

Dilaudid was given to me every 4 hours for the pain. And 

while it’s not morphine, it helped a little. 

Thursday  morning  comes  and  mid  morning,  a 

physician’s assistant, Cory, came in to talk to me; find out 

what  happened,  when,  where,  etc.  He  told  me  Dr.  Botts 

would be by later. He explained the break to me and why 

it  couldn’t  be  patched  together  with  screws  but  rather, 

needed  to  be  replaced.  The  procedure  was  a 

hemi-arthroplasty,  which  means  they  replace  half  the 

hip.  The  ball  joint  and  half  the  femur  had  to  go.  The 

socket was left as is. 

“We  can’t  get  to  this  until  tomorrow,”  said  the 

doctor.  I  asked  him,  “you  mean  I  have  to  stay  like  this 

another  day??” I really don’t know why they had to wait 

a  day;  they  either  told  me  and  I’ve  forgotten,  or  they 

didn’t tell me 

That Thursday was spent in agony but with Carlos 

by  my  side  he  made it seem a little better. My body was 

 
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reacting  to  the  pain,  shooting  out  a  bunch  of  adrenaline 

that I hope helped the pain. 

From  the  song  “He’s  Alive”,  I  spent  the  night  in 

sleeplessness and rose at every sound. It was a miserable 

night  filled  with  pain  and  medication  to  help.  It  seemed 

like  tomorrow  would  never  come.  Come  the  morning,  I 

couldn’t eat anything for breakfast because I was “NPO” 

before surgery. 

They  came  to  get  me  around  noon.  Carlos  had 

been there since mid morning, and as they took me off to 

surgery  and  we  kissed  goodbye, he spent the time in the 

waiting area. This was to be a simple procedure, one that 

the  doctor  has  done  many  times  so  I  was  assured 

everything would be all right.  
When I woke from anesthetic I remember it was

Friday afternoon and I don't remember being in any kind

of pain because the anesthetic had not worn off yet. I

remember them bringing me dinner but I don't remember

what I had. Physical therapy came in and tried to get me

 
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up but I was only able to take a step that was maybe 2 or

3" and it was discouraging but I have to remember that I

had just gotten out of surgery.

The night was spent comfortably and the next day,

Saturday, physical therapy came in again to try and get

me to walk. I remember I was able to get up on the right

side of the bed and walk…well not walk, but I stood on

my feet and I was able to take a step that was about 6".

The rest of the night was spent uneventfully. I was able to

rest and relax a little bit still in pain but able to take some

pain medication to help. The following day Sunday

physical therapy came in and I was able to take about 2

steps to the next bed before I had to lay back down again.

The next day, Monday, physical therapy helped me to

walk about 6'. That was very discouraging because I felt

like it was never going to get better. Monday afternoon

someone came in to prepare me to go over to the rehab

center in Van Nuys. It was called Windsor Terrace and

we had been over there before as we were looking for a

 
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place to place mom, so we were familiar with it and we

thought it was a really nice place. But it's a lot different

to be on the inside looking out than it is to be on the

outside looking in.

This  was  a  period  of  my  life,  being  placed  in  a 

nursing  home  that  I  hope  I  never  have  to  repeat.  People 

there  were  old.  People  there  were  incapacitated.  People 

there probably had no place to go and they were wards of 

the  state.  It  was  a  place  that  we  had  considered  putting 

my  mother  in  at  one  time  because  of  her  situation.  It's 

nice  on the outside…even sort of nice on the inside with 

individual television sets at each bet, what appeared to be 

nice  amenities…but  once  you're  there  as  a 

patient…things don't look so rosy.
I was taken over to Windsor Terrace at about 3

o'clock in the afternoon and placed in a room with 2
other men. I was placed in the middle bed. On my right
was a man who constantly whistled. On my left was
somebody who I never heard. I don't remember much

 
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more of that day but the following day on Tuesday I

started my main physical therapy.

Each  day  involved  2  one  hour  sessions  of  exercises 

and walking with the walker. When they felt I was strong 

enough,  they  discharged  me.  There  were  times  though, 

that  I  wondered  if  this  was  the  end  of  the  line  for  me. I 

was  in  a  nursing  home,  I  was  old,  I  was  a  lifelong 

diabetic,  I  couldn’t  walk.  There  were  private  times  at 

night  that  I  would  lie  awake  in  my  bed,  watching  the 

television that was 10 inches away, using a headphone so 

I  would  not  disturb  the  other  patients.  I  was  taking pain 

medication  every  4  hours;  many  times  for  pain,  but 

sometimes  for  my  mental  pain  this  was  putting  me 

through.  I  had  a  choice  to  make: Do what I could to get 

better, or give up.
This new regime lasted about 2 weeks and all the

days were the same with physical therapy and my 3
meals and nothing more. Carlos was there every day for
me and I had a couple of other visitors during that time.

 
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Katie came to visit with me, Alex from the chorus came

to visit me one day which was really a surprise, and I

received a beautiful bouquet of flowers from Michael

Graham.

These kind gestures really brightened my days and

I was very anxious to leave because this was one place I

did not belong. The goal was to be able to walk 300 feet

and physical therapy showed me where 300 feet was and

within a week and a half I exceeded that.

Then in two weeks a doctor came in and told me

that because of my progress I would be able to leave the

following Wednesday which was only two days away.

That was very exciting because I really felt I did not

belong in that facility. I couldn't even begin to imagine

my mother being in that facility and as it turned out we

did not place her there.

I was discharged in a walker on Wednesday, July 23, 

2  weeks  to the day after breaking my hip, and trying my 

best to learn to walk again. It seemed like it took forever. 

 
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Little did I know that when I fell, not only did I break 

my  hip,  the fall was so violent that it damaged my back, 

and  in  August,  2015,  I  endured  a  complicated  extensive 

procedure that left me with a 12" scar down the middle of 

my back. As this is being written, I am still in the walker, 

after  all this time, and undergoing pain management so I 

can  re-learn  how  to  walk  like  a  human  rather  than 

dragging my knuckles like a monkey. 

With  no  let  up  in  sight,  I  struggle  every  day  in  a 

walker  or  electric  scooter.  My  life  has  done  a  180º 

turn-around.  Now  I  am  facing  more  surgery  to  replace 

discs  and  fuse  together  some that I have. I don’t like the 

idea of surgery (who does?) but I also don’t like the idea 

of not being able to walk.
The fall that fractured my hip also did a mean

number on my back. As it turns out, when I fell, my

vertebrae were crushed. I found this out a year later and

the surgeon blamed it on the fall. It was necessary to go

 
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through another surgery to correct the back and “make a

new roof” for the spinal column, as the doctor put it.

That surgery was in August, 2015, and was listed

as a “Multi-level laminoplasty” and it involved

separating my vertebrae T3-T10 and bracketing them

back into place. I must set off all kinds of alarms at an

airport, what with the titanium hip and brackets in my

back.

Here we are in 2020 and I’m still using a walker

that I started that horrible day in July of 2014. I am

resigning myself to the fact that I must accept my

ill-fated luck and that this is the way it’s going to be. In

September 2019, I went through yet another back surgery

from L-3 - S1 with a fusion and laminectomy. My poor

back is just not the same, and coupled with being 73

years old, I’m beginning to show my age.

Beginning. That’s a good one 

 
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HEAD TO TOE Feet and Toes

 

In 1997, (that seems so long ago, doesn’t it?), I had 

noticed  on  my  left  foot,  big  toe,  what appeared to be an 

infection.I'd  always  been  very  careful  with  my  feet 

because  I  learned  over  the  course  of  years that diabetics 

can  always  have  foot  problems  that  was  one  of  the  last 

things I ever wanted to happen.  

I  recognized  when  I  saw  my  toe  that  it  needed  to 

be  taken  care  of however I did not realize how serious it 

had  become.  I  saw  my  endocrinologist,  Dr.  Richard 

Griffiths, who referred me to a Dr. Weisman in surgery to 

have  the  toenail  looked  at.  Dr.  Weisman  removed  the 

toenail, and I was sent home. 

The  toll  remained  infected,  and  I  noticed  a  small 

lesion  on  the  underside  and  medial  of  the  toe.  I  tried  to 

treat  it  at  home  with  Neosporin  and  bandages,  but  the 

situation became worse after approximately three days. 

I  was  referred  to  urgent  care,  and  I  saw  dr.  Kiley 

Chris  Brown.  He  said  due  to  the  severity  of  the  wound, 

he  was  not  able  to  help  me  but  he  referred  me  to  an 

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outside  podiatrist,  dr.  Eric  Feit  and  Dr.  Gina  Liped  in 

North  Hollywood.  The  referral  was  to  see  the  podiatrist 

within  3 to 5 Days. Why time an appointment was made 

with Podiatry, two weeks had passed. The toad continued 

to Fester even though the antibiotic administered 

  I  was  examined  by  Dr.  Liped,  and  she  debrided 

the  toe,  and gave me a prescription of silver sulfadiazine 

to be applied to the affected area, twice a day. I was given 

a post-op boot to relieve the pressure injury caused. 

Those  boots,  by  the  way,  are  very  uncomfortable 

and  very  ugly.  You  have  all  seen  them  I  am  sure,  and 

laughed at the poor soul who had to wear one. 

At  my  next  appointment,  I  was  seen  by  Dr.  Feit, 

who  was  also  a  podiatrist,  who changed the prescription 

to Keflex, and performed an additional debridement. 

An ulcer was now noticed on my heel, and Dr. Feit 

suggested  a walking cast to keep the wound covered and 

relieve the pressure that walking caused. I was not casted. 

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To  change  my  prescription  now  to  Augmentin, 

wrap  my  foot  in  an  Ace  bandage  after  seeing  an  x-ray, 

and  change  the  post  to  another  time.  At  this  time,  there 

was no osteomyelitis. I was referred back to Dr. Liped for 

a  follow-up  appointment.  she  felt  it  was  necessary  to 

consult  with  my  primary care physician, Karl Kaplan, to 

be admitted to the hospital. 

  And  now  I  am  getting  scared.  And  I'm  sure  you 

are  too  wondering  when  this  boring  part  is going to end 

but  trust  me,  we  are leading up to the good stuff. Kinda. 

Sorta. 

I  was  admitted  to  Tarzana  Medical  Center  around 

9:00  pm.  An  IV  of  cephalin  started  around  11  :00.  A 

bone  scan  and  a  Doppler  study  were conducted the next 

day.  I  was  visited  by  a  house  doctor.  She  said  no  test 

results  were  available  but  I  was  fitted  for  a  diabetic 

orthopedic shoe . 

She said there was no osteomyelitis in the hill, but 

it  appears  that  the  toe  infection  is  touching  the  bone.  A 

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fluid-filled  blister  was  noticed  on  the  lateral  side  of  the 

foot.  Another  orthopedic  surgeon  suggested  a  total 

contact cast that would need to be removed and examined 

each week, and would be on for approximately 3 months. 

Later while still in the hospital I was introduced to 

Dr.  Leopoldo  Delawa  who  was  a cardiovascular surgeon 

and  he  suggested  an  angiogram  to  check  the  circulation 

of my leg and my foot. He said at this point there was no 

need to worry about an amputation. 

Later  during  that  time  at  approximately  10 

morning I was introduced to Dr George Andros who was 

the  cardiovascular  surgeon.  He  was  a  very  tall  and  thin 

elderly gentleman. He would soon be the one to save my 

life.  

Dr.  Andros  Became  irate  at  the gangrenous ulcers 

and how they had been treated up to that point. He said if 

I had let this go one more week, I would have surely lost 

the  foot.  He  felt  I  had  received  “substandard  treatment" 

initially,  and  then  received  “...beneath  American 

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Standards  of  Care…”  he said that the doctors should not 

have  referred  a  diabetic  with  gangrene  to  Podiatry. 

Podiatry should have refused to treat me due to the nature 

of the problem. When Dr. Andros left the room, he shook 

his  head  and  said,  “I  am  appalled  at  this  treatment.” 

When  I  came  back  into  my  room,  he  said  “I  don't 

normally get this angry and you better pray that you have 

a good enough artery to save that leg.” 

Dr.  Andros  was  clearly  upset  about  this  entire 

incident.  So  much  so that all he could write on my chart 

was  “angiogram  in  the  morning.”  A nurse came into my 

room  after  Dr.  Andros  had  left,  noticing  that  I  was 

visibly  upset.  I  told her what happened and she said that 

the doctor told her the same thing and she felt the doctor 

was  too  angry  to  write  anything  more  on  the  charts  and 

he appeared to be “livid”. 

Later  that  evening  another  doctor  scheduled  an 

angiogram for around 10 the next morning. I asked him if 

there  was  a  chance  that  I  would  lose  the  foot.  He  said, 

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“absolutely.  Anytime  a  diabetic  has  gangrene  there's 

always a chance.” 

As  I  recuperated  at  home  after  dealing  with  the 

anxiety  and  stress  of  this  chronic  medical  situation,  I 

received  a  message  from  Dr  Kaplan  to  return  his call as 

soon  as  possible  as  he  had  “good  news  and  bad”.  The 

good  news  was  that  Dr.  Andros  feels  he  can perform an 

operation  to  increase  the  circulation.  The  bad  news  was 

that it would be performed at St Joseph where Dr. Kaplan 

did not practice. I could deal with that  

On  April  11th  1997,  I  was  admitted  to  St  Joseph 

Medical  Center  in  Burbank  and  started  on  IV 

medications on ceftin. I endured a triple femoral-popliteal 

bypass  graft  performed  at  approximately  3:30  in  the 

afternoon and lasted for about 5 hours. 

  I  was  in  extreme  pain  at  first  after  the  surgery. 

Then I needed assistance with crutches and a  walker for 

3  weeks.  When  I  was  discharged  from  the hospital, the 

doctor  felt  that  the  surgery  was  successful  in  regaining 

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circulation to my foot And therefore avoiding amputation 

of any limbs. 

I  continued  routine  follow-up  visits  with  Doctor 

Andros  after  surgery.  My  right  hip  began  to  hurt  after 

surgery with excruciating pain and I was on constant pain 

medications  every  4  hours  and  unable  to  sleep  at  all.  I 

attributed this to overworking my right leg as my left leg 

was convalescing. 

After  4  weeks  post-op,  I  noticed  no  improvement 

in my foot. I was referred to three more doctors. One was 

urgent care, another one was an infectious disease doctor, 

another  one  with  yet  another  infectious  disease doctor. I 

was  making  a  name  for  myself  at  St  Joseph  Medical 

Center. 

I was admitted to St.  Joseph Medical Center again 

with  the  possibility  of  surgery  to  remove  my  toe.  Was 

started  on  IV  treatment  of  Unasyn.  An  MRI  of  my  left 

foot showed a complete osteomyelitis of my great toe. A 

PICC  line  was  installed,  I  was  discharged  with 

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instructions to administer the IV at home, twice a day for 

6 weeks. 

It  was not healing, I found myself in the operating 

room for amputation of my big toe on my left foot.  

I was released from the hospital in May 1997 with 

one less toe than when I went in. 

Routine  follow-up  deserts  indicated  that  my  leg 

was still a high risk for below-the-knee amputation of my 

left  leg.  The  doctor said I am still at high risk as long as 

there  are  open  wounds  which  are  perfect  breeding 

grounds for new bacteria. 

Without  the  details  of  each  amputation  after  that, 

and  there  were  three  more,  including the big toe on my 

right foot  turn the number two toes on each foot as well, 

#5 toe on the left had to be opened and debrided because 

the amputation caused me to walk on the side of my foot, 

which  turned  gangrenous  as  well.  While  he was able to 

save  the  #5  toe,  I  had  to  have  the  bones  removed.  The 

hole  it  left  in  my  foot  was  gaping,  and  about  an  inch 

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deep.  He  wanted  to  leave  the  wound  open  so  he  could 

dress it with antibiotics, but what that meant was a 36 day 

hospitalization while it healed. 

All  4  amputations  and  related  surgeries  had  me 

down  for  several  years,  with  a  total  of  17  different 

antibiotics. 

After  all  these  years,  I  am  still  monitored  by  a 

cardiovascular  surgeon,  for occlusions in my legs and so 

far,  everything  seems  to  be  holding  OK.  The  fem-pop 

that  was  done  on  my  left  leg  in 1997 and they say they 

only last about 15 years but is still holding, and the right 

leg, though slightly occluded, seems to be ok. 

Not perfect - but OK. 

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Sometimes we go through life thinking all is right
and well in the world. That’d be a perfect world,
wouldn’t it?

But we don’t live in a perfect world. We live in a
real world with real problems, many of which have
solutions. Some of which just do not. Do you tackle these
problems alone? Many think they can; most need help.

I sure do. And I’m very fortunate to have support
so I don’t have to do this alone.

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Dad

Dad was a very quiet and private man. He didn’t
really participate much in the way my brother and I were
disciplined. Maybe he thought he wasn’t very good at it.
He always left that up to Mom.

One thing he did though, was offer a lot of praise
and understanding. Quiet talks with me when something
was wrong...I don’t ever recall him raising his voice in
anger. From the times I cut school, to the paintings I did,
to the music I made, to my ailing schoolwork...Dad was
there to help and encourage and support.

He used to ask me, “How do you remember the
words to all those songs??” whenever he heard me
singing.

He used to call my brother and me “bear” from the
time we were little. He never said “I love you” to any of

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us. I’m sure he did, but being as quiet and private as he
was, he never vocalized it.

A week before he died, I sat kneeling at his
bedside, just talking to him and letting him know how
much I loved him. I told him how proud I was to carry on
his name, and what a remarkable job he has done helping
me to become the man and the father I was. I told him, “I
love you Dad.”

His last words ever spoken to me, as close to “I
love you” as I’d ever get:

“I appreciate that, bear.”

Allen Dardenelle
September 20, 1918 - October 14, 1989

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Mom

Mom gave me strength that I never knew I had.
Throughout my life, from the time I first remember,
Mom was there encouraging me to be the best I could be.
When I was lazy in school or with homework, a very
unhappy mom would step in and make things right. She
never withheld dinner, she never raised a hand to us...but
she was the kind of woman that when she spoke, you
listened and you did what she said. There were no
questions.

I remember one night coming home from a date,
quite late, and coming into my room to find every stitch
of clothing taken out of my dresser drawers and my
closet and literally piled in a heap in my bedroom with a
note on top: “Clean this room before you go to bed!”

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I went into her room where she and Dad were
asleep, and I told her I’d clean it in the morning.

“You’ll do it now. And I mean now.”
The room was cleaned before I went to bed.
I came out to Mom on January 22, 1998, my 51st
birthday. It’s something I planned to do but just didn’t
have the courage. Finally I decided this must be done.
As we sat at the kitchen table, I said to her, “Mom,
you keep asking me if I think Georgia and I will ever get
back together. Have you ever given thought as to why I
keep saying no?” “No, I never did.”
“Did it ever occur to you that I might be gay?”
“No it didn’t. Are you?”
“Yes Mom, I am.

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With that, she stood up and came over to me with
her tender hug and warmth and love and said, “All I ever
want for you is your happiness.”

She was the one who taught me right from wrong,
good from bad and what it means to love. I miss the
touch of her hand holding mine, I miss stroking her hair. I
miss caressing her face.

Her last words to me: “Thank you so much for
everything” are words that I’ll remember for the
remainder of my days.

Shirley Dardenelle-Herriford
June 21, 1921 - September 13, 2016.

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September 13, 2017
Dear Mom

It was one year ago at 9:32 a.m. you left us.
I struggled but got through that day and the weeks
that followed.
I struggled as I dealt with the preparation for your
final rest. But I did OK.
I struggled through Thanksgiving, privately crying
as we gave thanks at the table for what we have. I was
thankful for you and your loving ways to me and the rest
of the family for so long.
I struggled through Christmas but it was a time of
joy for the children you loved so deeply.
I struggled on January 22 when I reached 70 years
old. But it was a day of reflection on the years past
especially dealing with my health issues.

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I struggled on Valentine’s Day when you and Art
would have celebrated your 12th anniversary. But I
smiled, remembering that day vividly.

I struggled in April when we laid you to rest with
Art where we placed two dozen red roses in your grave.
That was tough.

I struggled the day after when we lovingly
remembered you at your “Fiesta” in your backyard that
was beautifully decorated the way you used to do. When
they played “taps”, I lost it. But I was OK. We had your
entire family here to help. Your ENTIRE family.

I struggled, probably more than most other days,
on Mother’s Day and again cried silently throughout the
day, fondly remembering the Mother’s Days past.

I struggled in June on your birthday when you
would have been 96. But I was OK.

Here we are on your one year anniversary of your
passing.

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I am still struggling and I have my “Mother
Moments” but not as much and not as often….the way
you would have wanted.

Your family misses you and loves you and wishes
you were here… but we understand.

We struggle.
But we’re okay.
I miss you and I love you.

Mom’s Obituary:
It is with great sadness and sorrow that Carlos and

I tell you of the death of my mother, Shirley Dardenelle
Herriford, of natural causes. She was 95.

Mom had a distinct way about her and was loved
by so very many people whose lives she touched in the
course of those many years. A volunteer for the City of
Hope Medical Center for well over 50 years, she was
president of our local chapter for many of those 50 years,
and therefore instrumental in the raising of over $5M in

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donations that were used to save lives. She often said, "if
I have helped save one life, my work was not in vain".

Shirley will be laid to rest at Riverside National
Cemetery with her husband Arthur. Burial will be private
but a memorial service is being planned for the spring of
2017.

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Georgia
I first met Georgia Parker in October, 1966, when
we both worked in the credit department of a major
department store. We began dating and enjoying each
other, and 3 years later we were married, August 2, 1969.
She was fully aware of my health condition of
being diabetic for 13 years when we married. Her mother
tried to talk her out of it but she persisted and we were
married.
Throughout our marriage she was one to be there
for me when health issues arose, or when job issues were
too tough for me to mentally handle. She convinced me
that I have worth and that everything is going to be fine.
During the course of our marriage, she gave birth
to our two children; Scott in March, 1978, and Kathryn,
December, 1979. We were a family.

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As our kids grew up she held the family together,
especially with my health, my heart issues, my diabetic
issues. She was there.

We divorced in August, 1999, after 30 years. To
this day we remain friends and provide much support to
each other. Because that’s what friends do. Though we
are no longer married, we remain friends. And unusual as
that may be, it’s the way we work.

Thank you, Georgia, for all these years together
that have made such a profound difference in my life.

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Scott

My first born; my baby boy. What joy you have

given me during your lifetime. Always there helping each

other as dad and son; coming to Barbershop Quartet

competitions when you really didn’t want to, to show you

cared. Coming to family picnics and outings when you

couldn’t wait to get home...but you came because you

knew it was important to me.

Those days when we both made candy in the

kitchen for the holidays...with our little “doopies” on top

of each candy...being in the kitchen just you and I.

Loving so many good times together.

And here you are now, married with kids of your

own giving them the love you and I shared during your

lifetime. And our chats on FaceBook and on the phone or

on Alexa...treasured moments for sure...to reassure me

that everything - no matter what - will be OK. Telling me

that above all, you will take care of me if I ever need it.

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With every part of my being, I love you and so
honored to be not only your father, but your dad.

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Kate
My Katie. My baby girl.
We named you Kathryn Lois after your aunt Kathy
and great-grandmother Lois. But you were my Katie. You
still are, even if you prefer “Kate”
So many wonderful times we had growing together
and the times you would tell me, “It’s OK, Dad. You’re
going to be OK.”
Distinctly I remember in August 1996, on a
Saturday morning - you were seated on the floor of the
den watching cartoons. I came in and asked you to turn
the TV off for a bit because I had something to tell you.
When I knew I had your full attention, I told you I
was leaving home. I didn’t know where I was going but I
had to leave.
You asked me why, and I told you that I prefer to
be with men rather than women and your Mom and I
decided it was best for me to leave.

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Without blinking an eye, you said, “so you mean
you’re gay?” “Yes,” I said...fully expecting a teenage
tantrum but instead I got, “so what’s the big deal?”

You may never know what that felt like to hear you
say that. If that’s not support, I don’t know what is. No
one knew what was happening to our family, but
somehow we all saw it through.

You have been there for me through thick and thin,
good and bad, for better or worse, richer or poorer.

Oh wait….I got carried away :)
Always there for each other, no matter what.
Always my baby girl.
Always my Katie.

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Carlos
When Carlos and I began dating in 1999, we both
knew several things going in: We were not kids, I have
health issues that might be difficult, and both of us were
coming out of long term relationships. But that didn't
stop us. We both knew that if you love strongly, you will
love again. We do love strong, we did love again. How
well I remember that first day we met and the
anticipation that came with that first day.

Here we are all these years later, and on May 24,
we begin another year of love and help and support.
Things have changed over those years, naturally. My
health has deteriorated a bit, I've fallen and broken my
hip, I have back issues, and now hearing issues in both
ears. It bothers me that at times I think "this wasn't the
way it was supposed to be."

Then it dawns on me: Yes it was. We take each
other day by day the best we can and deal with issues the

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best we can. It may not always be the way we planned,
but this is the way it's supposed to be. This is life. This is
love. It's the price of admission.

Every day I love this man more and more. Being
with him is like that first day we met so many years ago.

I'm just forever grateful to have him in my life as
my partner, my best friend, my husband.

We're in it for the long haul...because we fit.
I love you, Pop.

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In August, 1996, after I had been married 27 years, 

I left home. I left my wife, my children, the home she and 

I  made  together  and  were  in  the  process  of  raising  our 

children.  Our  oldest,  Scott, was 18. Our daughter, Katie, 

was 16. She would turn 17 in December. I had absolutely 

no  idea  how  I  would  break  it  to  them that their dad was 

leaving, and it looked like for good. 

I came out. Well, not really. I was pulled out. 

Scott  was  so  angry  with  me…so  very  very 

angry…that  he  wouldn’t  speak  to  me  for  weeks.  This 

pulled  an  otherwise  close  relationship  apart  and  it  was 

something I didn’t know how to handle. The air was very 

cold  between  us,  and  that’s  not  how  it  had  been  for  18 

years. I was crushed to think that something I did hurt my 

child  so  deeply  that  being  in  the  same  house  with  each 

other was a mental battleground. He would be in the den 

watching  television,  and  I  would  come  in,  in  the  hopes 

we  could  talk.  But  every  time  I  came  into  the  room,  he 

would get up and leave. He would usually go to his room 

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and  close  the  door. It gave me the feeling of being alone 

in a world that not only didn’t understand, but seemingly 

didn’t want to understand. It made me feel like I was in a 

house where I didn’t fit and didn’t belong. 

Weeks  went  by  without  an  exchange  of  words 

between us. I was devastated, but I can’t begin to imagine 

how  it made him feel. He was silent, he was distant. I’m 

sure  he  felt  betrayed  by  his  own  father  and  didn’t know 

how to handle it. Perhaps even now I don’t think he knew 

what  to  do back then and he just did the best and easiest 

thing he could do at the moment, and that was to pretend 

that it didn’t happen and didn’t exist.  

Scott  and  I  always  had  a  close  relationship.  We 

were both the men of the house, but when we played with 

each other, we were the boys of the house. We had a fun 

time  together;  always  did.  We  were  not  just  “father  and 

son”  but  we  were  “dad  and  boy”.  From  the  moment  he 

was  born,  I  always  had  the  pride  in  him  that  dads 

typically have with their sons. I was part of that nurturing 

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team  that  helped  raise  him.  We  camped  together,  I  was 

his Boy Scout leader, we made crafts together…why, one 

day in his school when he was quite young, he was being 

called up in an assembly for some kind of award, and his 

shirt  was  dirty.  I  had  just  come  from  work  to  see  the 

presentation, and he told me that they wouldn’t allow him 

on  stage  because  of  his shirt. I took my own shirt off, to 

reveal  a  t-shirt,  and  literally  gave  him  the  shirt  off  my 

back.  The collar was too big, the shirt tails too long, and 

what  was  a  short  sleeve  shirt  on  me  was  a  long  sleeve 

shirt  on  him.  But  I  wouldn’t  let  him  be  excluded  from 

that  presentation,  and  he  was  beyond  excited  that  he 

could  be  presented  with  the  award.  He  looked  like  the 

shrunken man, but he had a clean shirt on. 

But  that  was  years  before.  But  that’s  the  kind  of 

relationship  he  and  I  always  had,  so  it was very difficult 

for  us  both  for  him  to  try  and  come  to  terms  with  my 

being  gay.  I  decided  after  three  weeks  of  the  silent 

treatment,  to  force  him  to  talk.  As  I  came  into  the  den, 

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fully prepared to fight, he started to get up, as he usually 

did when I walked in. 

“Sit  down.”  I  said.  “No,  I  don’t  want  to  talk  to 

you.” 

“I said sit down. You’ll do what I tell you because 

I  am  your  father  and  as  long  as  you  live  in  my  house, 

you’ll do as I tell you.” That took a lot of balls on my part 

because it just wasn’t the way I used to handle things, nor 

was it what he expected from me. 

He sat back down. 

My  demeanor  changed  from  anger  and  upset  to 

calm  and  composed.  “Scott,  I  need  to  tell  you  a  few 

things.  First  off,  if  you  are  thinking  something  like  this 

will happen to you, you’d have known by now. You’re not 

gay.  But  I  am.  It’s  something  I  didn’t choose, nor can I 

help it. But that’s the way things are. I hope you will find 

it  in  your  heart  to  accept  me  and  to  realize  that  I  will 

never  ever  stop  loving  you. You are my son, you are my 

flesh  and  blood,  and  I  love  you  with  every  part  of  my 

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being. I never want to stop talking to you, nor you to me. 

We can’t do that.” 

I’m sure more was said because we began having a 

relationship again, and we do to this day. 

Katie,  on  the  other  hand,  was  very  nonchalant 

about this entire thing. I remember going into the den on 

a  Saturday  morning  when she was watching television. I 

said  to  her,  “Katie,  please  turn  the  television  off  for  a 

moment  because  I  need to talk to you.” She did, and her 

attention  was  drawn  to  me  for  a  moment.  “Your  mother 

and  I  are  going  to  separate  because  she  found  out that I 

like  guys.” “So you’re gay?” “Yes, I am.” “So what’s the 

big  deal?”  That’s  my  “baby  girl”  (something  I’ve  called 

her  since  the  day  she  was  born).  Being  gay  never 

bothered her that I recall. If it did or does, I didn’t know. 

I left home in mid August, 1996. I had nowhere to 

go.  I  had  given  thought  to  going  to  my  mother’s  in 

Sherman  Oaks  but  surely  she  would  want  to know what 

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happened. Why did I leave? Was I ever going back? I was 

too embarrassed to tell her why. 

I  became  a  “couch  guest”  for  the  next 3-4  weeks 

with  people  I  had  met  on  the  internet  chat  rooms.  I  felt 

the  lowest  of  lows.  I  would  take  up  residence  for  a  few 

days  at  a  time  and  when  I  felt  that  I  was like that 3 day 

old  fish that starts to smell and become unwelcomed, I’d 

find another place to bunk down. Sometimes I slept in my 

car not knowing where my next couch or meal would be. 

I  felt  destitute.  I  didn’t  work  anymore  because  of  some 

health  issues  that  put  me  on  permanent  disability  so  I 

didn’t  even  have  a  job  to  go  to.  I  was  49  years  old  and 

never  felt  so  alone and lonely in my life. I felt unliked, I 

felt unattractive, I felt unloved.  

Those  weeks  were  the  longest and loneliest of my 

life.  Finally  I  decided  to  face  facts  and  tell  my  mother 

that  I  needed  a  place  to  stay.  A  place to move. A home. 

Certainly  she  welcomed  me  into  her  house.  She  was 

living alone, having been recently widowed a few months 

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before.  I  never  told  her  the  reason  why  I  left,  and  it 

remained  my  secret  for  over  a  year  before  I  decided  to 

come  clean  with  her.  That  was  on  my  51st  birthday, 

January 22, 1998. 
I remember being very distraught and going to

move into my mother's house. After leaving home really

not having a place to call home is when I moved into my

mothers and I remember sleeping on the couch instead of

the bedroom that she allowed me to have. The bedroom

was something I just could not get used to and I was

feeling very alone, very depressed, and very sorry for

myself.

Those were very lonely times indeed. Three very

lonely years I spent .  It  wasn’t  until  May,  1999,  that  I 

began  to  feel  like  all  was  not  lost.  Prior  to  that,  three 

Christmases were spent alone in my bedroom, with Mom 

in  the  den.  She  had  no  one.  I  had  no  one.  All  we really 

had was each other...and social guidelines dictate that you 

don’t date your mother.  I spent every waking moment in 

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front of the computer, trying to make friends, trying to be 

liked. 

In  early  May,  1999,  I  seemed  to  click  with 

someone in a local chat room. He had commented on my 

website  that  was  filled with photographs I had taken. He 

was  very  complimentary  of  my  work.  My  first  thought 

was,  “who  are  you  and  why  are  you  saying  these  nice 

things?”  I  was  very  leery  of  this  because  it  was  only  a 

chat room. I had no idea who he was and he really had no 

idea who I was. We continued our “getting to know you” 

dance for a couple weeks only online. 

As  the  weeks  went  by,  I  looked  for  reasons  to 

continue to look for him in the chat room. I had no phone 

number,  I  had  no  address,  I  really  had  no  idea  who  he 

was  other  than  his  name. I didn’t know his situation and 

he didn’t know mine but we enjoyed seeing each other in 

the  chat  room  and  I smiled when I saw him in there and 

hoped that he felt the same when he saw me in the room. 

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HEAD TO TOE And When I Can’t

 

Soon  after,  we  exchanged  telephone  numbers…I 

had  no  idea  where  this  was  going  but  somehow  I  felt  a 

burning  hunger  to  meet  this  man.  We  had  never  spoken 

on  the  phone,  only  in  a  chat  room  and  then  only  very 

casually.  I  was  new  to  the  “gay  thing”  and  new  to 

meeting someone; after all, I had been married nearly 30 

years and the only new people I had met were friends my 

wife  and  I  met  through  other  acquaintances.  Now  I  was 

out on my own, doing something way out of my comfort 

zone and having no idea what to expect. 

I  called  him.  What  a  pleasant  sounding man; well 

educated,  articulate,  intelligent.  After  talking  a  while,  I 

did  the  unspeakable:  I accepted his invitation to come to 

his  home  in  the  Hollywood  Hills  on Monday, May 24. I 

was  babysitting  my  new  grandchild  so  I  would  not  be 

able  to  stay  long,  but  after  asking  my mother to sit with 

Kristina  for  a  couple  hours,  I  took  a  hard  gulp  and 

decided to go. 

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