Just an afterthought I felt I wanted to tell a few, close friends before I hop aboard the West Bound.

     I'm a hard man. I'm what famed writer Rolando Hinojosa calls a "Gente' Dura." I make my living falling off buildings, cliffs, and bridges. I drive at break-neck speeds, crashing cars, riding bucking horses and bulls, and fighting---hand to hand, martial arts, swords, rapiers, foils, you name it. Motorcycles? They're like tricycles to me. I'm a stuntman in motion pictures, and have been for forty years.

    Statistically stuntmen and women suffer more broken bones, seperated shoulders and dislocated hips than any other profession. To my way of thinking, stunt people are the third toughest and most courgeous people on the planet. First, however, would be those quiet, hidden away folk (the no-see-ums), lying behind window shades and drawn drapes, suffering a long, painful illness that draws them closer and closer to certain death.

Secondly would be the person or persons (usually a husband, wife, son or daughter), who is washing, wiping, feeding, holding and hurting for their loved one as they embark on this frightening journey.

     Some of you have been through, are going through, or will go through this seemingly simple but terribly complex---even supernatural event. I know these things and can share them with you as my beloved wife of 34 years, actress-producer Tomi Barrett, recently passed away after battling six months with the ravages of lung cancer. Here, then, is a brief history of our experience.

    Our house, from the outside, looked almost deserted---haunted, if you will. However, if you could have peeked through the keyhole, you would have seen love transcendent---strong love, removed from the vagaries of lust, vanity, self-indulgence. This was love on the edge. Two people alone, simply living for each other in the moment.

     We noticed fiends and relatives that used to visit frequently were gradually appearing only now and then---staying for shorter periods of time. Conversations became small talk, phone calls and e-mail a litany of prayer and platitude.  "Y'all keep on fightin', hear?" And what a fight it was. We built our own fortress, a special world inhabited by muses, imaginary warriors and invisible advisors. We developed a deeper level of thoughts and ideas. We invented our own signals and secret gestures. There was a constant meeting of the eyes, where words were unnecessary, only getting in the way. There was much hand holding. (it hurts to be hugged when you are suffering from cancer).

     During the painful twilight of those months, we grew ever closer, more in love---so connected in body and spirit we werer practically the same person. And we made a pact, Tomi and I, that no matter what, these things: Love, respect, admiration, gratitude---would never be stolen from us by this ugly disease.

     Sometimes, there was genuine, grab your sides and shake laughter. Like the time I took Tomi to Randall's Market and placed her in one of those go-carts designed for the disabled. She cranked that sucker up and took off like a teenager in a dune buggy. She was headed full throttle right for a stack of canned peas. "Stop, Stop!" I yelled. "I don't know how to stop the damned thing!" Tomi yelled back, before disappearing down an aisle of breakfast cereals. I ran after her. Just before the produce department, she thought to turn off the key, and instead of crashing, came to a whimpering halt. Sighs of relief...much laughter...then we placed the 

vehicle in low gear and completed our shopping at a respectabale pace.

     There was the time in the kitchen, when I spied a column of ants moving toward the sugar bowl. "How did these get here?" I growled. Tap, tap, tap...(Tomi approaching on her walker) "They crawled, Einstein..." Tap,

tap, tap, on into her bedroom. 

     Tomi had always been beautiful, a natural blonde, lithe and graceful, an accomplished dancer at one time. Cancer tried to rob her of that beauty. Her weight shrunk from 118 to 92 pounds. Her high, prominent cheekbones were chisled into thin lines, like knife wounds. One night, as I turned that frail body so I could more easily clean her, (cancer victims, through the effects of medications and treatment, frequently loose the ability to control their bowels) I winced at her gaunt, skeleton-like appearanace. "How does that make you feel?" she asked. "That's the derriere you used to pinch and pat, now you've got to wipe it." "It still looks pretty good to me, babe." I gave it another little pat just to cement the remark. She smiled. I smiled. Somehow, we managed to keep our spirits blooming, like flowers in a secret garden.

     The night she passed, Tomi was lying in bed, on her back, watching The Animal Planet on TV.  I was nearby, on the couch, returning phone calls, giving updates. Tomi waved her hand, a gesture that usually meant "come here, I need something." As I approached, I was struck again by her translucent beauty, by the absolute grace of her being. I leaned into her---"Would you like some water ?" "No," she whispered, "I just want you to know how much I love you." "I love you too, Honey, always and forever and then some." I tucked the blanket close around her shoulders.

      When I looked up, at her face, she was gone---absent---her eyes wide open---her body already becoming board stiff. But, the strange thing was, in those lovely, almond eyes, she was smiling---staring straight ahead as though she had just caught a glimpse of something at once beautiful and powerful, welcoming her. I held her hand and began to weep. I am  a Gente' dura---a hard man.

Thanks for listening....Gary