Kansas Snapshots by Gloria Freeland - February 20, 2026
A lifetime ago
December is typically busy, but 1985's would prove to be exceptionally so. Early in the month, husband Jerome and I learned I was
pregnant with our first child. Jerome completed his master's degree in English from Kansas State University and we were talking
about his entering a PhD program at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute in New York. On graduation day, we gave our parents picture
frames with the words: "This frame is to hold a photo of your newest grandchild, who will be born in the summer of 1986. Merry
Christmas to us all!" Three days later was Jerome's 31st birthday. Then the focus shifted to the Christmas holiday.
We spent a quiet Christmas Eve with my parents and brother Dave and his family at my parents' farm home near Burns, Kansas.
Then on Christmas Day, we traveled to Jerome's parents' home in Haysville. On the way, Jerome quietly said, "You know, I've been
lucky in life. I could have been killed any number of times in accidents, but I think my purpose in life was to create this little
thing." Then he reached over and patted my tummy.
In contrast to Freeland celebrations, Johanning gatherings were loud and a bit boisterous. We, his parents, and three brothers and their
families ate, talked, and played cards. We sang around the organ while his mother Rita played, and then opened gifts. His parents gave us
a tiny sleeper for the baby and Jerome gave me a Dr. Spock book with an inscription telling me how proud he was of me and our child.
The day after Christmas, Jerome and his dad Ken decided to work on the attic steps in the garage. I went to the basement, where Jerome and
I had a bedroom for our visits. I tried on a new pantsuit his parents gave me.
Just as I was getting ready to show everyone my new outfit, Jerome came downstairs holding his head and saying he had a terrible
headache. His parents followed him. I wasn't sure what was happening, but I told Ken he should call 911.
It seemed like it took forever for the ambulance to arrive. The EMTs asked Jerome what I thought were annoying questions: "What's
your name?" "What day is this?" "How do you feel?" "What's your phone number?" He answered the questions, although his voice was
weak. Later, I realized they were assessing him.
They strapped him to a gurney and then struggled to get him up the stairs and into the ambulance. I rode along. His parents followed
in their car. Jerome was able to answer questions until we were about halfway to St. Francis Hospital. Then he became silent.
The EMTs wheeled him into one of the intensive care units. I followed. Then he started shuddering and seizing and the medical staff
quickly ushered me out. I was terrified.
Within a few minutes, Ken and Rita arrived. Over the next hour, his brothers and their wives and his 17-year-old nephew Davey Paul
came. I was still wearing the new pantsuit and it still had the tags on it. The top was sheer and the waiting room was cool. Davey
Paul offered me his shirt, which I gladly accepted.
Then we waited.
Eventually, the doctor appeared. Jerome had had an aneurysm burst in the lower portion of his brain. While it was in a location that
was inoperable, the doctor said he was "cautiously optimistic," but emphasized the next 24 hours would be critical.
That was the beginning of a nightmare that played out over the next five weeks. We watched closely for signs Jerome was improving.
We were heartened when he moved his hands, but were told those were involuntary. When he pursed his lips, I thought he was trying
to kiss me. The doctor said, "No." A nurse said one of the first senses to return is hearing, so I read to him and shared the
latest news. I told him how much I was looking forward to sharing parenthood with him.
I kept a constant vigil by his bedside. Family members and friends joined in. Hours became days.
Then one day we were told they couldn't do any more to help him. We'd have to look for another facility. Ken and Rita insisted
they would take care of him in their home, but I knew that wasn't possible. He'd require 24-hour-a-day care.
We never had to make that decision. On the evening of February 2, Rita and I had gone someplace to eat when something told me we
needed to go back to the hospital immediately. When we arrived, the doctor said Jerome had experienced another large brain bleed.
We called Ken and Jerome's brothers so they could come to the hospital to say "goodbye."
I recall going to his bedside, holding his hand, and putting my head close to his to tell him I loved him. I had the feeling he was
hanging on because he was afraid to leave me and the baby. I don't know how I had the strength, but I told him, "It's OK to go. The
baby and I will be fine." Then the rest of the family spent a few minutes with him.
He died in the early-morning hours of February 3, 1986.
While I have shared pieces of this story before, both in this column and in other ways, this recent February 3 was another
milestone. It's been 40 years since Jerome's death. Some details I recall vividly, while others have faded. In some ways, it seems
like yesterday; in others, it's a lifetime ago. But husband Art told me he thought it was a good time for me to write these
recollections from a lifetime ago before they disappear.
Graduation day
