A Long Overdue Update: A Goodbye I Wasn’t Ready For

I know some of you have probably been wondering why I haven’t posted since February—February 25th, to be exact. Truth is, I’ve tried to write this entry several times since May. I’d start, set it aside, come back, and then set it aside again. Because on April 1st, I got the phone call that shattered my world.

That morning started like any other. I got up, settled into work, and was mapping out the rest of my week. Things were going smoothly—nothing had broken (a small victory)—when my phone rang. It was my cousin, my aunt’s son. He never calls during the day, so I immediately felt something was off. When I answered, he was crying. My heart sank. Through sobs, he told me that my beloved aunt had passed away in her sleep the night before.

I told him we’d be there as soon as we could and hung up. I walked downstairs, still on the phone, and Josh could tell something was wrong. When I told him, he was just as stunned. We had just texted with her the day before—she’d been discharged from the hospital and we were planning our next big trip. I was gutted.

With shaking hands, I tried to book flights to New Mexico. My thoughts were scattered, and I kept hitting mental walls. Eventually, I called our travel agent, who helped us navigate the logistics—flights, rental car, everything. I was so grateful. Neither Josh nor I were in the right headspace to handle it alone.

Packing was its own challenge. Josh managed everything in a single carry-on. I, on the other hand, had no idea how long I’d be gone, what the weather would be like, or what I might be bringing back. I ended up with a large suitcase, a carry-on, and a personal item—packed with essentials, and plenty I didn’t need. I even had to buy clothes while I was there.

We landed in New Mexico around 10 p.m. that same night, but the rental car desk had already closed. We took a shuttle to a hotel and picked up the car the next morning before heading to Des Moines to be with my cousin and the rest of the family.

My aunt was my maternal uncle’s ex-wife. They had one son together and, despite their divorce, remained close over the years. She remarried and was still with her husband at the time of her passing. Their relationship had faced challenges recently, but they were working through them—trying to heal and rebuild.

Growing up, my aunt lived several states away, so I only saw her during her visits to North Carolina. She’d come to see her best friend from high school and always made time for a beach trip. My uncle would visit her in New Mexico every few years.

Twelve years ago, my uncle invited me to join him on a trip out west. It was my first time traveling that far—beyond Memphis and New Orleans. I’d been to Colorado as a toddler, but I don’t remember it, so it didn’t count. His health was declining, and he wanted to make the most of his time. I helped him navigate the airport in a wheelchair, and he hoped that trip would spark something in me—a deeper connection to New Mexico. He was right. He passed away 11 years ago this November, but that first trip opened a door I’ve walked through many times since.

I’ve flown out there often, but twice I drove cross-country. Josh pointed out that every time I get a new vehicle, I seem to drive it to New Mexico. He’s not wrong. After totaling my Mini Cooper by hitting a deer, I got a Prius and drove solo, stopping to see cousins and explore new places. Later, I bought a 2020 Willy’s Jeep Wrangler—lifted it, put on 35s—and made the trek again. It wasn’t cheap, but it was worth every mile.

Every trip out there became an adventure with my aunt. We explored hot springs, White Sands, Taos. She’d lived in New Mexico for years but still hadn’t seen so much of it. One time, we went “tromping” for rocks and fossils—found arrowhead fragments and beautiful stones, though no fossils. On my last trip, we visited Shiprock, hiked the Bisti Badlands, drove Jeep trails in southwest Colorado, and stayed in Silverton. We saw things most people never get to see. Every memory is a treasure I’ll carry forever. 

During this most recent trip, I did everything I could to honor her. I cooked for the family, wrote her obituary and eulogy, and helped with arrangements. She wanted to be cremated, so we honored that. We bought keepsake urns, shared her ashes with loved ones, and scattered some on Johnson Mesa. We sorted through paperwork and handled what we could. There was more to do, but time didn’t allow.

It still doesn’t feel real. I keep reaching for my phone to text her—our usual way of chatting, since her speech was affected by cancer treatments. I want to tell her about my day, share something funny.

She was strong. Determined. Nothing kept her down for long. Years ago, she battled throat cancer. Radiation left scar tissue that made speaking and eating difficult, but she bounced back and kept living fully. She tended her water garden, thrifted and repurposed treasures, traveled, and cared for others.

In 2022, she caught COVID, and everything changed. Her throat swelled inward, making breathing difficult. Eating became dangerous—aspiration pneumonia was a constant threat. Josh and I were on our anniversary trip along the Blue Ridge Parkway when we got the call that she was hospitalized. We nearly flew out immediately, but were told she was stable. Still, the worry lingered. She recovered, went through therapy and treatments to expand her esophagus, and tried to reclaim normalcy. But things slowly declined.

I’m grateful for every moment I had with her. For the bond we built. For the chance to honor her wishes.

There’s still much to sort through—her husband is handling the estate, and her motel is now up for sale. We hope it finds a new owner soon. Grief takes time, and so does healing.

Eulogy

Good morning, everyone. My name is Rebecca Short, and I'm here today to honor and remember my beloved aunt, Kathy Jo Pannell. Thank you all for being here to celebrate her life and the profound impact she had on all of us.

Aunt Kathy Jo was more than just an aunt; she was a beacon of light in my life for 42 years. From my earliest memories of her visits to North Carolina, to our most recent adventures in New Mexico, she consistently brought joy and excitement into my world.

Kathy Jo had an adventurous spirit that was infectious. Whether we were digging our toes in the sand on the Carolina beaches or exploring the rugged terrains of New Mexico and Colorado, she was always ready for the next big adventure. One of my fondest memories is our last trip together, where we drove my Jeep through to Shiprock and hiking at the Bisti Badlands, up into the southwest corner of Colorado, into Silverton and Telluride. We ventured on trails that took us high into the Alpine tundra, witnessing ice and snow on the ground and breathtaking views that few get to see. Crossing Medano Pass into the Great Sand Dunes National Monument, seeing the dunes from a unique perspective – these moments summarize the way Aunt Kathy Jo approached life: always seeking new angles, always ready to take the road less traveled.

But Kathy Jo wasn't just about grand adventures. She had a creative side that manifested in countless ways. She was a DIY expert, with a particular talent for arts and crafts. Her ability to repurpose items and create found art was remarkable, turning the ordinary into something extraordinary. Her garden was another canvas for her creativity, with a special love for Iris’, particularly those from the Hondo Iris farm. And let's not forget her culinary skills – her tamales and apple pies were legendary. I'll always cherish the memory of her teaching me how to make apple pies from scratch, a skill I'll carry with me always.

What truly set Kathy Jo apart was her character. She faced life's challenges with fierce determination, strength, and grace. She found joy in the unexpected and took genuine pleasure in doing things for others. Her Facebook posts – filled with funny reels and images – were just one of the many ways she spread happiness.

There's a story that I believe perfectly summarizes Aunt Kathy Jo's approach to life. During a family camping trip to the Great Smoky Mountains, we all went tubing down Deep Creek. While the rest of us struggled, getting stuck on rocks or flipping out of our tubes, Aunt Kathy effortlessly floated down the stream, emerging completely dry while the rest of us were soaked. This moment always reminds me of the Modest Mouse song "Float On" – "Don't worry, even if things end up a bit too heavy, we'll all float on." That was Kathy Jo – always floating on, no matter what life threw her way.

The lessons I learned from Aunt Kathy Jo are countless. She taught me about resilience, about finding joy in unexpected places, and about the importance of caring for others. She showed me that life is an adventure waiting to be embraced, and that even the smallest acts of kindness can make a big difference.

As we say goodbye to Kathy Jo today, let's remember her not with sadness, but with the same joy and zest for life that she always exhibited. Let's carry forward her spirit of adventure, her creativity, and her kindness. In doing so, we ensure that her legacy lives on.

Aunt Kathy Jo, you were my adventure buddy, my teacher, and a constant source of joy in my life. Your light will continue to shine in our hearts. We'll miss you dearly, but we take comfort in knowing that wherever you are now, you're undoubtedly embarking on your greatest adventure yet. Thank you for everything, Aunt Kathy Jo. We love you.