Saying goodbye to a friend
Afriend of mine, a former colleague probably 20 or 25 years older than me, died recently. You may remember his name and his writing. He was longtime Oklahoman health writer Jim Killackey.
It’s not my place to say much about what happened to him. Jim suffered from back problems. Later he started falling down at work. Sometimes he seemed confused. He sat beside me for eight years. Occasionally I found him exasperating, willfully ignoring instructions from his editors. Often he made me laugh, whether due to the pranks I pulled on him or the unexpected things he’d say. He and his friend Mick Hinton, who sat across from him, were fond of fake fighting. Mick would tell Jim he was wearing the ugliest tie he’d ever seen. Jim would say, “Your wife liked it when I put it on this morning.” They’d bicker back and forth, not in any way seriously.
Jim left the paper reluctantly, although he didn’t leave for good. He continued to submit articles, most of them about issues related to senior adults. About the Christmas season the year he retired, I stopped by his house to see him and give him a collection of Frank Sinatra music. We shared a love of crooners and film noir, including the Robert Mitchum version of “Cape Fear” and the somewhat ridiculous “A Touch of Evil.”
After that I ran into him occasionally at the bookstore, where he’d be with his wife, Karen. He told me he’d been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, which explained much about his conditions. He downplayed the significance, though, and while he often emailed me, he never detailed his fears about what was happening to him. He’d mention his health, then turn his attention to me: asking questions, praising my work.
As I said in an email to his son, Regan Killackey, most people regard me as a pessimist. Jim was the only person ever to call me “irrepressible” and the only one to make me believe that term was appropriate. Our work was stressful. Often our nights were long. Sometimes tasks can feel like taking a beating, but whenever I got knocked
down, I eventually found my smile and then my laughter again. Jim celebrated each of my difficult victories.
Over the past few years, our contacts became less frequent. I’d think about him from time to time, but I couldn’t remember his email address. A couple of his messages fell through the cracks. Time passed. I got wrapped up in my own problems.
So it was a total shock on Friday, Sept. 7, when my wife called to tell me that Jim was in a coma and was not expected to live. He died less than an hour later at 5 p.m. sharp.
I cried, of course, first when I learned he was in a coma, then harder when Regan told me Jim was gone.
Along with the surprise comes all the regret — all the things you didn’t say, all the things you wish you could take back. I liked to tease Jim. Sometimes I’d unplug his phone line just to watch him sputter and fume, eventually getting a telecom worker to come to his desk. Each time she’d patiently plug the phone back in and advise him not to disconnect it. But he was of a certain age, so the trick played out again and again.
The newspaper lost one of its most entertaining individuals when Jim retired. Among a staff filled with eccentrics, Jim stood out — and sometimes stood up to make bewilderingly funny proclamations. We joked sometimes about putting Mick and Jim and a couple of the other older male employees in a boy band like ’N Sync, which was popular at the time. We decided on the name O2, because they’d likely need oxygen in between songs. Jim would be the band’s heartthrob.
Now he’s not here anymore, and somehow I feel like the one who needs air. Losing someone you care about, even when you haven’t been close in years, is a sucker punch you never see coming.
Rest in peace, Jim. Know that you will be missed.