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My father, Jim Fortner, lost his battle with cancer on December 10th, 2004. This picture of me and my dad was taken
in November, 2003, a few days after he was first diagnosed.
I miss him sorely! My dad had many great attributes:
he was hardworking, strong, funny, kind, generous, and dependable. But what I admired most was that: (1) he was always
learning and growing and becoming a better person, and (2) he "loved well." My prayer is that I will always keep these lessons
in my heart and live his legacy.
On this page, I've posted some of the journaling I did during my dad's illness and since his passing.
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A righteous man who walks in his integrity--
How blessed are
his children after him."
Proverbs 20:7
Letters To My Dad
November 2005
Well, Dad, it’s almost Thanksgiving and I have to say, I’m not looking forward to it…it kind of brings
it all back. The timing wasn't so great for the doctors to break the news to us about your cancer the day before Thanksgiving.
At church they’re promoting the Women’s Christmas Luncheon—I was planning to go last year but ended up getting
the call from Nean, saying that the doctors couldn’t do any more for you. So instead of hanging out with the ladies,
I drove up to Little Rock to help ya’ll pack for the trip back to Georgia. I’m not really in the mood for a women’s
luncheon this year either!
And now with Nean being diagnosed with breast cancer—it’s just a lot! Not to mention Nanny dying just a month
ago…sakes! But you know what really gets to me? It’s how Nean is dealing with everything. She’s amazing!
She’s walking it through with such grace…but the peace she has is way beyond anything I’ve ever seen.
But even with this cancer thing she’s facing it head on, ready and willing to do (or have done to her) whatever the
doctors recommend. I think some of that has to do with you…remember what she wrote about you in your obituary? “He
met the cancer challenge head on, with wit and courage, as he always dealt with life’s situations.”
Well, how could she do any less? Especially after all you endured. And I know you were will to do that , not for you, but
for us. I remember you saying you had lived a full life and had no regrets, and that you had done everything you really wanted
to do.
Speaking of that, I hope you and Nanny are enjoying each other’s company there! Poor Nanny, she was ready to join you
several months ago, but we wouldn’t let her. We just couldn’t deal with that for a while. She hung in there
for us as long as she could, which did help. But I’m glad she’s finally home.
Sometimes I worry that I won’t be able to do what I told you we’d do before you died. I told you that it was
OK for you to go and that we’d cover for you. We’re pulling together and making it, but it’s tough, and
we’re not doing near as good as what you could do. But the good news is that God’s been coming through in major
ways to help out—like the peace Nean has…definitely a God thing.
Anyway, I don’t mean to be glum, but I guess I am, cause I miss you and wish you were here. But we’re doing OK
and determined to live it out the way you did. It’s just that it was so much easier and a lot more fun with you!
Nean’s selling the house. It ‘s really hard to think about letting that go…the house you built. But it
will be good for Nean to be closer to family and medical care. I’ve been trying to figure out a way to get that mirror
out of the bathroom and move it to her new house…you know, the mirror that you wrote “I love you” with Nean’s
lipstick. Wonder how long it’s been on there? And all these years, that mirror has never been cleaned! My kind of
house keeping!
I love you Daddy.
Me
June 10, 2005
I got the pool vacuumed out yesterday. It looks
nice but made me miss you...that's your job and you did it so well. I remember watching you out there early in the morning
"running the pole." It's sure a lot harder than it looks!
The kids had a great time swimming yesterday. I told them
about how you built the pool and the house yourself...they were impressed. They had asked on the way here, how it was that
you and Nean had gotten so much money. I told him that ya'll didn't really have all that much but that you had managed it
well. I told them about how you built the house yourself and how you built the pool for free by building 4 or 5 other ones
for friends and making enough on those to pay for ya'll's. You are still teaching lessons!
We sure miss you though!
It's June now and I'm missing our time at the beach. I didn't realize how much the beach was a part of me...especially Jekyll
Island. I have so many memories of us going there...
Do you remember the time we had a late start and didn't get to Jekyll
until around midnight? I must have been only 12 or so. Instead, of going straight to the camp, we drove down to the beach.
In the moonlight, we saw sea turtles finning their way back to the water after laying eggs in the sand. We were amazed as
we stood quietly watching.
And then there's the camping...I can imagine surviving that now but back then it didn't
seem such a big deal. Yeah, it was hot but everywhere was hot...nobody had air conditioning and we just put up with it until
we could get down to the water to jump in. When we weren't doing that, us kids were hiking along those sandy trails through
the spanish moss draped trees. It was an adventure...we would come across old tabby ruins or grave stones. Do you remember
the pirate knife I found? I still have it.
I thought crabbing was really great fun...even though I was allergic to
seafood and couldn't eat any of our catch. I guess I'm really a fisherman at heart...I loved sitting there with that old chicken
neck on a string, waiting for the crab to start nibbling. Then slowly pulling the bait close enough to shore to scoop up the
unsuspecting crab with the net. And then when we had a big enough catch, taking them back to camp and dropping them in the
big pot of boiling water and seeing them turn bright orange.
Those are rich memories...but they wouldn't be the same
without you. I miss you so much. But the one thing that helps is that in many ways you are still with us...like the pool...you're
there...like you are in this house that you built. It's just that we expect you to walk in any minute...and you don't.
But,
it helps to think about those times when you were out on the golf course...knowing you were out loving it, especially when
you were hitting the ball well and have a great game...it helps to just pretend that you're out having the time of your life
on the golf course...and maybe you are. I love you.
Kathy
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"Love is patient,
love is kind.
It does not envy,
it does not boast,
it is not proud.
It is not rude,
it is not selfseeking,
it is not easily angered,
it keeps no record of wrongs.
Love does not delight in evil
but rejoices with the truth.
It always
protects,
always trusts, always hopes,
always perseveres.
Love never fails."
1 Corinthians 13:4-8
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February 10, 2005
Well, Daddy, it's been two months now...it’s almost Valentine's.
Guess what! Nean found the Valentine you made! It had fallen behind the dresser, who knows how long ago. But it was pretty
special. She said you had made it by hand with colored glitter and popcorn packing material. The only thing is that the popcorn
packing material, well, it was that biodegradable kind, and it kind of biodegraded, so it was all shriveled up but it still
looked pretty cool. You had glued the popcorn all around the edge of the heart and used glue and glitter to write, “
love you.” I didn't know you were so creative or so romantic! Nean also told me about the year you gave her three Valentines
because you found three cards that you really liked but couldn't decide which one to buy so you bought all three. And you
wrote little notes on them and signed them three different ways.
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I'm glad you told her how much you loved her. I know she meant a lot to you. I know she inspired you and helped you
become the person you were. I was thinking about that at Kristin's wedding. It was such an amazing celebration. As I watched
our family dance and eat and laugh, I realized that our family wouldn't be such a fun, cool, loving family if it weren't
for Nean...you did good Dad!
I guess that's the neat thing about a good marriage. Both people become better because they are together.. I know sometimes
it looks like one or the other benefits most. But I don't think that's ever true really. I know you wouldn’t have
been the person you were without Nean and she wouldn’t be the person she is without you. The good thing about that
is that you have become a part of her, and a part of each of us. And even though you're gone physically,there's no way you
can be completely gone from us, because you are part of us.
Much Love,
Kathy.
PS Remember how you wrote
"I love You" on the bathroom mirror with Nean's lipstick? It's still there!
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January 2005
I realized something today…don’t know what triggered me, but I thinking about Dad and
missing him. As my heart ached in remembrance, I realized that everything in me called out, “Daddy” and yet I
haven't called my father, "Daddy," for ever so long. I did call him that when I was little but around the time I became
a teenager, I started calling him "Dad". After I left home for college I started calling him "Pa". And I called him "Pa"
until I had children, then we started calling him "Papa". And so for the last 23 years, it’s been "Papa" or "Pa" sometimes
"Dad", but not "Daddy", at least, not "Daddy" until a couple months ago.
I don't know why, but I guess it changed when he got really sick. To roust him, I would gently call, "Daddy, time to wake
up." Or I would bring him food and try to coax him to eat, “Daddy, I have some supper for you. It smells good! Don't
you want to give it a try?” I hardly got the response I expected. He opened his eyes and said, “Smells like
Matlock's dog!” We had a good laugh over that, but he did humor us a little more by taking a few bites.
Maybe it happened when life began to narrow down to the basics…eating, sleeping, and going to the bathroom. Even relationships
narrowed down to the basics. He was Daddy and I was his daughter. Sometimes he thought I was there when I wasn't…sometimes
he mistook me for my sister or she for me. But one thing was never confused: He was Daddy.
Maybe it had to do with feeling like a child who has so little power or control. Yes, I definitely felt powerless over the
cancer and all that went with it…the chemo, the sickness…the needles, the tests, the smells. It overwhelmed
me but Daddy handled it…he did what he had to do. I would have complained and whined…I think I would have come
to a point and said, “Leave me alone…let me die in peace. I’m sick of this…I quit!” I suppose
that’s what a child would do, but Daddy just kept at it.
For the first time, I think I understand why it’s such a privilege to be able to call God, “Abba Father”.
Knowing him as "Daddy," is not about what He does, but about who He is and who I am as His child...and that will never change.
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Because we are children of God, we have the Spirit of His Son in
our hearts, crying out, "Abba, Father!"
Galatians 4:6
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January 6, 2005
Dear Daddy,
Nean’s going home tomorrow… her first trip back since you left. It will be four weeks to the day. We’re
worried about how she will be able to manage without you. Just Nanny will be enough, but then there's all the things you
did around the house.
The one good thing is that the whole house has been re-carpeted and repainted. I think it will make it a little easier for
the house to look different. Maybe the newness will detract from what's missing.
It’s you that will be missing, and that's kind of hard to detract from.
It’s funny how you were “there”.
You were there in pretty loud obvious ways… telling stories, making jokes, fussing about messes and stuff.
But then you were there in a quiet way… just a solid presence. You didn't have to say a word or make a sound, but your
strength and stability held the walls up. I think that will be the hardest to live without.
Nean said that with you, she never had to worry about anyone giving her any trouble. You were her defender and protector...if
anyone gave her any grief, they had you to deal with. But maybe that will remain…maybe she’ll always be known
as Jim Fortner's favored one and receive the respect and honor of that position.
You know she’s doing amazingly well…oh, she misses you enough but she hasn’t "lost it" or fallen apart.
We were talking about how surprised she’d been by the incredible peace she’s had through all this. She knows
it’s God’s grace but she also told me about how you had helped her last April. Do you remember how anxious and
afraid she became at that time...thinking that you might not make it? She told me that you asked her what you could do
to help and how you just held her and prayed for her.
That made me cry…that you would help her grieve your passing before you died…you’re pretty amazing.
I love you, Daddy,
Kathy
"A time to embrace...a time to let go."
Ecclesiastes
3:5
December 24, 2004
Dear Daddy,
You know something I'll always treasure? It was that last time I took you to the clinic. Do you remember?
We sat for a long time, quietly waiting until you could gather enough strength just to shuffle out to the car. Everything
was slow and laborious. I watched you reach for a tissue, and it was like you were in slow motion. As your fingers brushed
the tissue, they fumbled to take hold. Carefully you pressed your fingers together and pulled it slowly from the box.
I wasn't in slow motion…my mind was racing with thoughts, my heart taunt with intensity. I wondered that it didn't
at all seem pitiful to me. Instead, I was filled with awe at your dignity and strength. Yes, strength, isn't that funny?
That in such weakness there could be such strength. I guess it was that quiet strength of your presence.
We finally made the arduous trek to the car…all 30 feet and you were so tired and exhausted and needing to catch your
breath. I didn't say much...I knew that it took more energy than you had to listen and track with a conversation.
I drove a few blocks but then had to stopped to wait for traffic to clear so I could turn onto the busy four-lane road to
the hospital. I waited for a break. Finally I saw an opening, but just before I started to pull out, you spoke out, with
more life and strength than I’d heard in a while, “Punch it!”
That little phrase caused my heart to leap. My dad, always my dad…for the first time in my life I loved hearing you
tell me how to do something. Those simple words bathed me in an incredible comfort and warmth. And at 50, I realized that
I will always be your daughter, your child . Many things may change, many things had changed, but one thing would never
change. I am forever your daughter. There was such comfort in those simple words
We finally made it to the chemo lab, but you were really feeling bad that day…nauseous and sick, tired and exhausted.
We sat there quietly waiting. It took too much energy for conversation.
I noticed that you were shaking and asked if you wanted a blanket. You nodded, “Yes,” and I found a nurse who
gave me a wonderfully warm blanket. I draped it over you and tucked it around your shoulders. Your face was so thin and
the stubble on your face was bristly and white, lacy and feathery like ice crystals on a winter morning. (Do you remember
when we were little and you would wake us up in the middle of the night to see those rare Georgia snow falls? We’d
snuggle into our warm blanket and look out at the snow in the moonlight.)
You stopped shaking and sat for a while with your eyes closed, there in the wheelchair. I'd never seen you that way before.
So unlike the man you'd always been…active, strong, full of life, full of laughter and stories, busy doing things…fixing…building.
Then I watched you open your eyes and slowly turn towards me. Our eyes met. Then do you remember what you did? Do you remember?
You winked!
Did you know all the world was in that wink?. Yes, all the world!
That wink said, “I’m still here.” And you were. And I knew you always would be. Yes, that's what it
said,
“I’m still here and always will be.”
I wasn’t confused about that…I knew the time would come, when we’d say goodbye in this life. I didn’t
think it would come so soon…it came only two weeks later. But I knew then that you would always be with me…that
all that you were, all that you had taught me and given me, would stay with me. They are a part of me.
And maybe it’s like the way Jesus left His spirit to be with us…you left your spirit with me and it will continue
to guide me.
Thanks, Daddy, I love you.
Kathy.
Journaling
December 2003
My dad is currently receiving cancer treatment at
the Arkansas Cancer Research Center in Little Rock. This has been an adventure none of us would have chosen or imaged. I am
overwhelmed with the grace and strength that my folks have shown going through this ordeal. Even though it has been painful
and difficult, it has been incredibly rich.
Cancer is awful, but it’s not all-powerful. It has ravaged his body, but it hasn’t taken his
spirit. His humor, which is such a part of him, is still there. Even in his weakened state, his inner strength, to which so
many look, is still there.
But I'm seeing things about Dad that I hadn’t noticed before. He has expressed a sense
of wonder about the changes in his body…a kind of “would you look at this” response. Maybe it comes from
living long enough to realize that things rarely happen as we would like or expect. When we get past the expectations, perhaps
then we are able to take change and challenges with more wonder than fear.
As he seems to be seeing himself in new
ways, I realized that in certain ways, I was seeing my Dad for the first time. But what I'm seeing must have been there all
along…but I hadn’t noticed before.
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Walking with Dad at the hospital…he held my elbow and supported me as if I were the patient instead of he. He
still seemed so strong and sure. His firm hand lifted me as we walked the lap around the cancer unit. Later, as he slept
in the hospital bed, I looked at his hands and marveled. Had they always been that big? I hadn’t noticed before.
Memories flowed in…
Had his hands gotten that big from holding five newborn babies? (The first one when he was only 18.) Did they get that big
from wrenching that pony’s tail to force him into the barn on Christmas Eve so we’d have a dry, warm pony on Christmas
morning? (I think he finally took a two-by-four to the stubborn critter!) Were they that big from tenderly carrying our poor
crippled dog out to relieve herself for weeks while she recovered from being hit by a car? (He didn’t really like that
dog…but he was so very tender and attentive to the suffering creature.)
Or maybe it was the day he wrung his
hands and wept in them as he told us that he and Mom were getting a divorce and that he was leaving but loved us and would
see us as often as he could.
Had his hands gotten that big walking me down the aisle on my wedding day? Or maybe holding his first grandchild?
Were his hands always that big? It’s funny…I hadn’t noticed before.
A few days later, he reached
his hand out to me and I placed my hand in his. As his big hand encompassed mine, he whispered, "I love you."
I love
you too Dad.
Copyright 2004. Kathy Doerge. All rights reserved.
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