Kick-Ass Kinda Girl

by Kathi Koll

  “Why do you want to be hypnotized?” he asked with a puzzled look on his face.

  “If the hypnosis works, I could walk faster, not tire too easily, remember each blade of grass.”

  What can I say? It worked. It’s still the day I remember more clearly than any of the others. I also realized for the first time since Don’s death that there are other men in the world who might also intrigue me as a friend or future partner. I was new to being alone, and the little bit of dating I’d done had been challenging—each person had an agenda that left me wondering what I was really supposed to do.

  I met a wonderful man during my hike. His quiet charisma, school-boy shyness, and impressive intellect reminded me of Don— just a genuinely good person with no ulterior plans. His demeanor, compassion, and respect for his family led me to see there can be a life going forward with a quality person. It had been only two years since my Dons passed, and this man was like an angel sent from both of them. He had no agenda other than companionship on the trail. He shared lovely stories about his life and family, and gave ear to the challenges of my past with Don and life going forward. He listened compassionately to my memories of my husband and my brother and felt it was good they hold a part of my heart. His counsel came at just the right time, and I so deeply appreciate his kindness.

  I believe that, as I move forward, the next person in my life has to be someone who can embrace and accept my past. My parents, brothers, and husband will always have a part of my heart. The next person will also have that. I have a giant section waiting, and he will fill the sections open to a new life and be ever so equal to all the people in my life who have gotten me to where I am today. I look forward to this next person showing me new horizons, eager to share in my thirst to learn and see a life I haven’t experienced.

  Trying to step into a new life also opened up the question: What to do about my ring? Do I wear it? Am I supposed to take it off?

  I noticed after Don died people would glance at my hand. It was a very uncomfortable feeling. I knew what they were thinking, and I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. I felt uncomfortable knowing they were thinking about it, and I was thinking about it, but no one was mentioning it. This inevitably leads to things said from a place of love, but that often end up feeling hurtful in the moment. One of my friends said, “When you feel ready to take off your ring, that doesn’t mean you can’t wear it around your neck.” He was right, but it was a leap that’s easier said than done. I hadn’t thought about it before nor read what the proper thing to do was or if there even was a proper thing to do.

  I came to my own conclusion. If I was to move forward and date, I needed to take off my ring. There’s no right or wrong answer, but it was the conclusion I came to for myself. Not only was it hard, from a feeling of security, but I had worn a wedding ring every year but one since I was eighteen. It was part of my existence. An eleventh finger.

  One afternoon, I met my daughter Brooke at the beach. We took a bottle of wine, toasted Don, and I took off my ring. I thought the timing was right, but as it turned out, it wasn’t. I couldn’t stand looking at my bare finger. I felt naked. I felt empty. I felt like a loser. I felt so alone. Within two days I put it right back on. Over the next few weeks I started taking it off and on for practice until I finally started to get comfortable with it off.

  Sitting in the library of my home in Mexico, the last spot I shared happiness with my two Dons, I looked at the pictures surrounding me on the shelves and thought about how to move on. Which photos to take off the shelf. Which new ones to make room for. I refuse to be frozen in time. My life is going to go on, and I’m determined it’s going to be as fantastic as it has been. I can feel the challenges ahead of me, but I can’t let them determine my future. I love to be happy—who doesn’t? But I know it doesn’t come easily. Just like a fun adventure—it doesn’t happen without plotting, plotting, plotting. I thought by now I’d know it all, but have learned that life doesn’t change in so many ways. Just different challenges and new unchartered territories. I’ve learned a lot over the past few years. Most importantly, happiness doesn’t just happen. Pushing myself out of my comfort zone has been my friend.

  My life has been a patchwork of sorrow and happiness woven into one quilt, just like everyone else’s. Some will never have the extent of pain I’ve had, some way more. It’s all relative to each individual, and how we move forward in life can be a beautiful, constant work in progress. We have to want it. It doesn’t come easily, but I’ve found it to be well worth it.

  I look back at my pain and compare it to childbirth. I know it hurt, but that pales in comparison to the best part—my beautiful little babies. That’s how I look back on the challenges of my life. I know there were tough times, and I’ve shared many of them; but my memories have an incredible amount of happiness, even during those times in my sea of sorrows.

  It’s so easy to fall back into a Bermuda Triangle of old memories, but I’m determined to make new ones. I hope that years from now, today will be a good memory also. A memory of how I didn’t give up and the joy it brought to me. I don’t want to be someone whose life and conversation stopped in a moment of grief that confines me to the past. My life’s never going to stop. I want to build upon my life and keep exploring new territory. Of course I’ll continue to tell some of those old stories. Stories that I love and that make up my history. I might even put a little color into them, too, since I’ll be listening to myself telling them over and over—might as well enjoy them.

  I’m meeting more and more women and men who are now experiencing the same kind of life challenges as I am. Some widowed, some divorced. The common cord between us is being alone. Recently a friend asked, “How come you get invited to couples dinners? I never do.”

  “When was the last time you initiated an invitation to a couple?” I asked.

  “Never,” she said. “I just assume they will know how lonely I am and invite me.”

  Well, forget it. In a social life, if one is single or married, it’s a two-way street and takes some work to be included. I don’t think people forget you on purpose, but if you’re not on their radar screen, you won’t be thought of. “Remember all the time you spent with parents of your children’s friends when your children were in school, just to barely if ever see them again once your family was grown?” I asked her. If a single person, whether man or woman, wants to stay involved, they have to initiate and reach out to friendships. You just have to make yourself do it. It would be lovely if staying connected and involved were always a 50/50 effort, but you have to go the extra mile sometimes and make your effort 60/40. At other times, your friends will have to do the same for you.

  It’s hard—believe me—and I do feel forgotten, and many times my feelings are hurt. It’s lonely. I’m not crazy about picking up the phone and saying, “Susie, do you and Jim want to go to a movie tonight?” It’s weird and never becomes completely comfortable, but it does become easier, and opening myself to others is the best solution I’ve found to being remembered.

  Just as I entertained before and during the time Don was ill, I’m now continuing on. I invite friends to my home for dinner. The table seating is now an odd number, but that’s OK. I’d rather have it uneven than lose the time with friends, and they in turn then remember to include me in some of the things they’re doing. It’s not perfect, but it’s a start.

  I wrestled with the idea of going back to St. Tropez. Some local friends of mine and Don’s, the Aubrys, invited me to stay with them, and after much contemplation I decided, “Hey, it’s my town, too. Why should I lose it?” It was a huge challenge for me to return to a place so laden with memories of my husband and my brother. My first visit was in 1976 with my brother Don. Soon after my mother, father and other brother died, my brother Don called me and said, “What are you doing?”

  “I’m planting tulips,” I said from my home in Springfield, Missouri.

  “Who’s going to take care of them while you are in St.
Tropez?” We were both recovering from a few years of family devastation, and he thought it would be fun to do something completely unexpected. I had never been to Europe and had no idea what he meant by St. Tropez.

  Years later, when it became a favorite summer destination for me and my husband, he said, “Kathi, I want to meet local people. We can easily see friends passing through from the US on vacation, but I want us to become part of the local fabric of St. Tropez.”

  I recalled these memories as I sat at lunch at Le Club 55 with my “local friends” Judith and Alain Aubry, who embraced Don and me in a way you’d think the French never would.

  I woke up each morning remembering the regiment of, “Kathi, hurry up. We need to get to town.” With Don, I barely had enough time to comb my hair before we were off for a full day of lovely beaches, food, and dinner parties. It was our normal routine, but I sometimes had a hard time keeping up with it. There was absolutely no downtime during our St. Tropez visits, and now that I look back, I understand. Don was on a mission to live every second to the fullest, and boy, he did—sometimes at my expense.

  Don was always on the go. The Aubrys take time to enjoy the day, a new and completely different experience. The days remind me of the ones I had as a child. Those summer days that seemed to never end.

  People mistakenly feel that things in life come easily to me, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. I push myself, and it isn’t easy. Going to St. Tropez alone was a difficult journey to undertake. I was full of doubt and questions that I didn’t have anyone to answer. What will I do with people I barely know? How will I be in the social town of Southern France by myself? How will I move to a hotel by myself? How will I stop wanting to call Don and tell him what’s going on?

  I finally said, “Kathi, just do it.” It doesn’t matter if it’s a spot in Europe or being alone at the neighborhood family picnic. It’s an intimidating situation, but what I’m finding out is that no one is looking at me. I can try anything, and everyone else is focused on their own life. I’m only a passing thought.

  I find that being on a plane allows me the opportunity to make my own little nest where no one bothers me. It gives me some of the quietest and most private moments, like being in a cocoon or a womb. It is almost the feeling of being in a trance. When I look out the window, my mind travels effortlessly in so many directions with so many emotions.

  When Don was still alive and I took a flight somewhere, it was the only time I escaped reality. I was up in the clouds, 40,000 feet above my problems. Time and solitude were my friends. I had the chance to rest without guilt and the time to write without interruptions. Emails, texts, and phone calls were all in the distance. Thousands of miles away. As I would sit and look out the window, I’d think about all sorts of things—my challenges with Don, the old life I missed with him, and often I’d jot down stories of my experiences to read to him later. He loved it when I read to him, and it didn’t matter the subject. He just enjoyed the time spent together and the sound of my voice.

  Even today, I feel the same way. I used to think about my past, but now I find myself thinking more about the day at hand and beyond. No matter how hard I try, it’s nearly impossible for me to be uninterrupted. Just when I think I will have a few days of privacy, something comes up to throw that idea out the window. Part of it (OK, most of it) is my fault. I say yes to everything—especially when one of my children call.

  “Mom, Lily’s sick. Can you pick up Liam from school?”

  “Mom, do you want to have lunch?” How could I possibly turn down an invitation from one of my children?

  “Mom, my kids are driving me crazy. What do you think I should do?”

  The list goes on and on. Before I know it, half the day is gone, and the things I needed to do for myself—writing, work, my foundation—have been squeezed out. So the peace and quiet that accompany the closing of the main cabin door also accompany my most creative hours.

  Many years ago, I asked Don, “How do you do so much, running a complicated company, and never seeming stressed? How do you get so much done? You have a lot more going on than I do, and I feel overwhelmed.”

  “Kathi,” he replied, “you need to look at the big picture and know it’s out there. But only focus on a few days out.” Those words have helped me ever since. I don’t look too far back, too far in the future, but just wake up and do my day. When I look at life that way, it’s so much easier for me to accomplish my goals, and goals are so very important to me. I don’t even mean something grandiose. I try to look at life in a series of baby steps. I mean things like I need to jot down four names and make sure I ask those people to do something with me in the next couple of weeks; I need to exercise three times this week; I need to clean out my bottom drawer. It doesn’t really matter what it is, but for me, having different goals on my calendar to focus on has given me a structure that helps me get through my day since I lost my Dons. It’s one of the tools I used while he was ill to help get through my challenges, and it’s just as effective today.

  I’ve always kept lists and been very goal-oriented. It’s part of my personality. Something Don and I had in common. Knowing that we were happiest when we had something on the horizon, I always made sure Don had something special to look forward to. It was just a new incarnation of how we’d always lived our life together.

  I read somewhere that the happiest people are the ones who push themselves. I’m not sure how happy I am, but I do understand that statement. An accomplishment that is realized gives me a pride and a feeling that is mine and only mine. Something I’ve done. It’s funny, but when I was young, I never thought I’d look at life this way, but now I see how similar every age is. It’s just a matter of how one wants to play the game.

  As I sat at Le Club 55 with my French friends and a renewed look on life, I saw people who were comfortable yet surprised to see me back. Within seconds, I belonged. I forced myself to go, and I am so glad I did.

  I do know I’m stronger now, and I do know I’m able to live without constant sadness. I didn’t think it would be possible, but I’m succeeding. It doesn’t mean I don’t have waves of sadness from time to time or memories that pierce my heart. What it does mean is that I am ready to embrace life again. I’ve turned the corner and the world is looking like a wonderful adventure again. Life didn’t end with Don. For me it began. I’m now taking the love and confidence he gave me and moving forward as I know he would want me to. There’s a big world out there with a lot of life to live, and I’m determined to live it.

  15

  BEATLES TO BOCELLI BY WAY OF MALAYSIA

  “You gotta be somewhere.”

  —Don Koll

  Last night while I was enjoying an incredible concert by Andrea Bocelli, one of The Three Tenors along with Luciano Pavarotti and Plácido Domingo, at the Hollywood Bowl, I couldn’t help but think of the first time I ever went to a concert there. It’s hard to believe, but it was over fifty years ago to see The Beatles. Those were the innocent days, back when going to a concert was as easy as going to the movies. When my mom was about to drop me and my girlfriends off in front of The Bowl, she thought better than to leave eight giggly teenyboppers on their own and walked right through the gate with us, even though she didn’t have a ticket. Who would dare question a mother in those days? Good call, since a few years later, when I was nineteen, George Harrison asked me on a date— while I was married and pregnant.

  Bocelli’s music filled my heart with the memory of his voice giving life to Le Patio. Don played his music every afternoon over and over and over again as we sat on the veranda together watching the boats come back from a day moored off the beaches of Southern France. Each wake bigger than the next, racing back to port as the sun was setting.

  As memories of Bocelli and The Three Tenors drifted through my mind, they settled on the weekend Don and I spent in Malaysia following an annual trip to London.

  Don and Kathi in Malaysia

  Each June, Don and I met up with
a group of friends in London for The Prince of Wales Foundation’s summer events, an organization started by Prince Charles to benefit various charities he supported around the world. After the first summer of numerous parties and black-tie events, I didn’t think Don would ever want to go again, but he really looked forward to it, and the sojourn became a yearly ritual. We called it our adult summer camp. We made amazing friendships with people we wouldn’t normally have come across in our everyday social circle in Newport Beach. Joan Rivers kept Don in stitches with her hilarious and irreverent stories. Once, she leaned over to Don and said, “Don, look at all the fancy ladies in this room. Can you spot first, second, or third wives? Just look at their fingers. It’s the size of their ring.” Over the summers, we connected with many socialites, philanthropists, and other interesting people, and our adult summer camp became a ritual we all looked forward to each June.

  One afternoon, we were all together in the country outside of London, along with some other groups, to watch Prince Charles playing in a polo match. There was a large tent set up where a formal luncheon was about to be served, and I noticed that Don’s and my place cards were at different tables. Normally he hated that, but this time he was seated with friends whom he enjoyed. I, on the other hand, was placed at a table of people I didn’t know and was worried they wouldn’t speak English. As luck would have it, not only could everyone speak English but they also couldn’t have been more interesting or charming. I noticed Don looking over towards me all throughout lunch. I wasn’t sure if he pitied me or was envious of me.

  “I am Francis Yeoh of Malaysia,” the gentleman on my right introduced himself. After I introduced myself, we engaged in simple conversation until he asked, “What business is your husband in?”