I have good news and bad news. The good news is I'm finally getting around to posting the story I wrote for my hometown paper, the Headlight Herald. The bad news is that I'm only posting the copy I turned in. It's the best I can do since a.) I don't have a PDF of the story, b.) a scanned copy of the printed article might be difficult to read.
So please enjoy the raw copy, sans edits, subheads and a headline.
Originally published in the Tracy Headlight Herald on 4-7-2010
By Brady Gervais
Six months from now, on a Sunday morning in October, my sister Brooke Ortmann and I will toe the starting line of the Chicago Marathon with 45,000 other runners.
We have signed up to run 26.2 miles – about the distance from Tracy to Tyler – on behalf of the Multiple Myeloma Research Foundation (MMRF). Every step will be for our dad, Eugene Averill, who lost his battle with cancer 15 years ago this week. He was 46.
My sister and I were 10 and 11 when our dad’s body succumbed to multiple myeloma, a blood cancer. He never got to see us in action on the track field or on the golf course, wave to us from the stands at our high school graduation or walk us down the aisle when we got married. He'll never get to hold future grandchildren or grow old with our mother.
When he died, he left a void in us that has never been and never can be filled. His sisters, nieces and nephews, in-laws, wife, daughters and friends miss him always.
Brooke and I will log hundreds of miles training for the Chicago Marathon this summer for our dad, for the time he didn't get to have. For his family and friends who miss him. For the thousands of children who have lost a mom or dad because of multiple myeloma. For those who have suffered and survived. For those who won't. For paying better attention to our bodies.
Our dad was diagnosed with cancer in the fall of 1993. Soon after his diagnosis, he underwent chemotherapy and radiation treatments. He spent the following summer at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minn., where he had an autologous stem cell transplant, which means his own cells were harvested and frozen before treatment.
For a brief time following the transplant, he felt stronger. After another trip to the Mayo Clinic in December 1994, our family was hopeful Dad might go into remission. But in the early months of 1995, his body failed him again. No chemotherapy, treatment, radiation or surgery could save or prolong his life. In March, he went into the hospital in Tracy for the final weeks of his life. On April 4, he died.
Many of you reading this probably remember him. He wore Wrangler jeans, a starched button-down and cowboy boots most days of the week. At 6 feet, 5 inches, with shiny jet black hair, a handsome smile and confident gait, he was hard to miss. You might have grown up and attended Tracy Area High School with him, or played dice with him at the Red Rooster on weekday mornings.
He loved horses and spent years slowly cultivating a name for himself in the world of quarter and paint horses. If you ever passed by our former home west of Tracy on US 14, you would have likely noticed the sign: “Gene Averill Quarter Horses.”
Our family spent weekends at horse shows in Cannon Falls, Minn., in South Dakota, IowaKansas. At the time of my dad’s death, we owned dozens of horses, some bearing champion titles. and even
For more than 10 years, my dad made a living as a Justin Boots salesman, and he spent a lot of time on the road. I tagged along on two trips and even at nine years old, I could see how his clients respected him. For a time after my dad died, I was convinced that I would grow up to be a Justin Boots salesman just like him so I could preserve his legacy.
To my sister and me, we were princesses and our dad was our king. He was someone who could do a rockin’ Elvis Presley impression. He bought us ponies so we could learn how to ride horses. He brushed our hair after a bath and picked out outfits for us from Nordstrom so we would look our best on our first day of school. He took us to the Tracy Bakery for long johns.
I wish I could have held onto my dad and made him stay on this earth longer. Eleven years with a parent isn’t enough. With each passing day, the image of him gets fuzzier. This is what happens when you lose a parent as a kid.
Brooke, the tomboy of the family, lost her best friend. She and Dad did chores together; she helped him feed the horses and visit them in the pasture. She rode the three-wheeler with him and “helped” mow the lawn. He videotaped her climbing trees, playing with toads, catching squirrels and releasing them back into the wild.
“After he passed, I didn't have anyone to do these things with,” she told me.
Our mom was a source of strength and love, and it’s because of her that my sister and I thrived despite our father’s early passing. She went to every dance line competition and piano recital. She supported us when we competed in Miss Tracy. And it was my mom, along with my sister, who walked me down the aisle when I got married.
As runners, we are taught to listen to our bodies. If we hurt, we take a break from running. If the pain persists, we see a doctor.
For years, our dad never had an annual physical or saw the doctor when he felt pain. He complained of chronic back pain for years. He chalked it up to life. Between spending thousands of miles behind the wheel for his job and working with the horses, he was bound to ache now and then, right?
According to the MMRF, multiple myeloma is a cancer where the plasma cells in the bone marrow grow out of control, and the cancerous cells cause bone pain.
Dad put off seeing a doctor for too long. All it would’ve likely taken to determine the source of his pain was a simple blood test. If only he had listened to his body.
Since our dad died, the MMRF has helped bring four new treatments for multiple myeloma patients. My sister and I hope our efforts will help fund research for new treatments that will prolong the lives of the next generation of cancer patients.
As members of the MMRF team, we have pledged to raise a minimum of $2,000. Ninety-three percent of every dollar raised will go directly to research and related programming.
Brooke and I welcome your support, whether it’s in the form of a donation or encouragement.
Our dad was never a runner, but my sister and I like to think that on race day, he will be running every mile with us—probably in cowboy boots.
As you consider whether to donate, please note:
--The MMRF received a four-star rating from Charity Navigator.
--The foundation has raised $130 million since its inception in 1998 and has been able to fund 120 laboratories throughout the world.
--The MMRF educates and supports multiple myeloma patients.
Donating is simple. You can visit our donation page and contribute any amount by using your credit card.
Originally published in the Tracy Headlight Herald on 4-7-2010
By Brady Gervais
Six months from now, on a Sunday morning in October, my sister Brooke Ortmann and I will toe the starting line of the Chicago Marathon with 45,000 other runners.
We have signed up to run 26.2 miles – about the distance from Tracy to Tyler – on behalf of the Multiple Myeloma Research Foundation (MMRF). Every step will be for our dad, Eugene Averill, who lost his battle with cancer 15 years ago this week. He was 46.
My sister and I were 10 and 11 when our dad’s body succumbed to multiple myeloma, a blood cancer. He never got to see us in action on the track field or on the golf course, wave to us from the stands at our high school graduation or walk us down the aisle when we got married. He'll never get to hold future grandchildren or grow old with our mother.
When he died, he left a void in us that has never been and never can be filled. His sisters, nieces and nephews, in-laws, wife, daughters and friends miss him always.
Brooke and I will log hundreds of miles training for the Chicago Marathon this summer for our dad, for the time he didn't get to have. For his family and friends who miss him. For the thousands of children who have lost a mom or dad because of multiple myeloma. For those who have suffered and survived. For those who won't. For paying better attention to our bodies.
Our dad was diagnosed with cancer in the fall of 1993. Soon after his diagnosis, he underwent chemotherapy and radiation treatments. He spent the following summer at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minn., where he had an autologous stem cell transplant, which means his own cells were harvested and frozen before treatment.
For a brief time following the transplant, he felt stronger. After another trip to the Mayo Clinic in December 1994, our family was hopeful Dad might go into remission. But in the early months of 1995, his body failed him again. No chemotherapy, treatment, radiation or surgery could save or prolong his life. In March, he went into the hospital in Tracy for the final weeks of his life. On April 4, he died.
Many of you reading this probably remember him. He wore Wrangler jeans, a starched button-down and cowboy boots most days of the week. At 6 feet, 5 inches, with shiny jet black hair, a handsome smile and confident gait, he was hard to miss. You might have grown up and attended Tracy Area High School with him, or played dice with him at the Red Rooster on weekday mornings.
He loved horses and spent years slowly cultivating a name for himself in the world of quarter and paint horses. If you ever passed by our former home west of Tracy on US 14, you would have likely noticed the sign: “Gene Averill Quarter Horses.”
Our family spent weekends at horse shows in Cannon Falls, Minn., in South Dakota, IowaKansas. At the time of my dad’s death, we owned dozens of horses, some bearing champion titles. and even
For more than 10 years, my dad made a living as a Justin Boots salesman, and he spent a lot of time on the road. I tagged along on two trips and even at nine years old, I could see how his clients respected him. For a time after my dad died, I was convinced that I would grow up to be a Justin Boots salesman just like him so I could preserve his legacy.
To my sister and me, we were princesses and our dad was our king. He was someone who could do a rockin’ Elvis Presley impression. He bought us ponies so we could learn how to ride horses. He brushed our hair after a bath and picked out outfits for us from Nordstrom so we would look our best on our first day of school. He took us to the Tracy Bakery for long johns.
I wish I could have held onto my dad and made him stay on this earth longer. Eleven years with a parent isn’t enough. With each passing day, the image of him gets fuzzier. This is what happens when you lose a parent as a kid.
Brooke, the tomboy of the family, lost her best friend. She and Dad did chores together; she helped him feed the horses and visit them in the pasture. She rode the three-wheeler with him and “helped” mow the lawn. He videotaped her climbing trees, playing with toads, catching squirrels and releasing them back into the wild.
“After he passed, I didn't have anyone to do these things with,” she told me.
Our mom was a source of strength and love, and it’s because of her that my sister and I thrived despite our father’s early passing. She went to every dance line competition and piano recital. She supported us when we competed in Miss Tracy. And it was my mom, along with my sister, who walked me down the aisle when I got married.
As runners, we are taught to listen to our bodies. If we hurt, we take a break from running. If the pain persists, we see a doctor.
For years, our dad never had an annual physical or saw the doctor when he felt pain. He complained of chronic back pain for years. He chalked it up to life. Between spending thousands of miles behind the wheel for his job and working with the horses, he was bound to ache now and then, right?
According to the MMRF, multiple myeloma is a cancer where the plasma cells in the bone marrow grow out of control, and the cancerous cells cause bone pain.
Dad put off seeing a doctor for too long. All it would’ve likely taken to determine the source of his pain was a simple blood test. If only he had listened to his body.
Since our dad died, the MMRF has helped bring four new treatments for multiple myeloma patients. My sister and I hope our efforts will help fund research for new treatments that will prolong the lives of the next generation of cancer patients.
As members of the MMRF team, we have pledged to raise a minimum of $2,000. Ninety-three percent of every dollar raised will go directly to research and related programming.
Brooke and I welcome your support, whether it’s in the form of a donation or encouragement.
Our dad was never a runner, but my sister and I like to think that on race day, he will be running every mile with us—probably in cowboy boots.
As you consider whether to donate, please note:
--The MMRF received a four-star rating from Charity Navigator.
--The foundation has raised $130 million since its inception in 1998 and has been able to fund 120 laboratories throughout the world.
--The MMRF educates and supports multiple myeloma patients.
Donating is simple. You can visit our donation page and contribute any amount by using your credit card.
2 comments:
Brady and Brooke! I'm so proud of you ladies! Your Dad was such an amazing person! I can still picture your Dad so clearly in my head! He gave you guys everything to make you who you are today! You should be so proud of yourselves!! I wish you the best of luck in the marathon!!
Laura Buchert (Goltz)
Thanks, Brady, for sharing. I know you and Brooke will run wonderfully in Chicago.
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