But hugs, kisses and laughs can’t overcome devastation.
On Dec. 5, my daughter Angelica said goodbye to her husband of 17 years, Russell, who died from a rare genetic liver disease. He was 47.
Forty-seven.
Russell was born in Michigan, which explains his love of the Detroit Lions and Michigan Wolverines. Angelica and Russell told people not to bother calling or texting during those games, so that meant I would call or text, especially during losses.
Russell had been sick for a while, losing weight and energy, and it took a while before doctors diagnosed a condition that quickly worsened. He needed a transplant.
I saw Russell the day before Thanksgiving, and he said he would likely have the surgery in the first or second quarter of 2026. I asked the tough question — do you think you can make it?
He was drawn and weak and likely had lost 100 pounds by then. But he firmly said, “Oh, yeah.”
Then things went to hell.
He was rushed to Kettering Medical Center because he was vomiting blood clots, and then transported to the University of Cincinnati Medical Center. There, he quickly declined. His liver couldn’t process toxins anymore; his brain started to swell, his organs failed and he was on a ventilator. I drove my daughter to Cincinnati after doctors told her there was nothing more they could do.
So there, in the room, she reached under a blanket and held his hand. She rested her head on the cold metal hospital railing and her tears dripped against the beat-beat-beat of his heart monitor. Then she kissed him one last time before he drifted into whatever comes next.
His service will be on Dec. 20, and afterwards his friends and family will gather at Bojangles, the nightclub he owned.
Every day, children, teenagers and young adults die too soon from maladies that steal souls. It’s the cruel part of life’s miracle.
Logically, I understand that. But emotionally, I wasn’t prepared to hear, “Daddy, I’m gonna be a widow at 36.” How can I take away the agony of the woman who will always be my baby girl? When will I be able to make her laugh again?
In Richard II, Shakespeare writes, “Grief makes one hour ten,” and that’s a serious underestimation. Grief can be like a grey sky on a cold winter day, consuming much and letting the clouds part just a little, sort of as a tease. Grief is the price we pay for love, and over time, I hope to realize it’s a worthy cost.
When we knew Russell was going to die, and hope became a fool’s errand, I did what I had so many times before. I held her as she cried so hard her shoulders heaved, and my shirt grew wet, and I said, “It will be OK,” even though it wouldn’t be, not anytime soon.
Ray Marcano’s column appears on these pages. Named the best columnist in Ohio in 2025, he can be reached at raymarcanoddn@gmail.com.
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