A long time ago, my wife Nancy was in line at Universal Studios, arguing with her big brother about why he insisted on paying for their entire family.
Terry Gust was living in Los Angeles at the time – the summer of 1986, I think. We were visiting from South Dakota. He had already paid for Disneyland and Magic Mountain. “Now it was our turn,” Nancy said.
“But you’re my little sister,” Terry told her quietly. “I see you so rarely. This is one small thing I can do for you.” Whether it was the words or the gentle voice, tears came to Nancy’s eyes.
I remembered the moment when Nancy answered the phone one morning and learned that her big brother had died. He had died overnight in a nursing home in New Mexico. I didn’t see the official cause of death, but it was a complication of Alzheimer’s disease. He had struggled with it so painfully slowly for three or four years. The end came quicker than expected. A blessing, perhaps, but it hurt. His death is sad. The thought of him continuing to waste away is unbearable.
He was Nancy’s hero, the big brother – in her world from the moment she first became conscious until the day of the phone call. He teased her, raised her and protected her.
He was a hero to me too. He and my big brother were friends at school. Whenever Terry stopped to pick up my brother and ride Main Drag with him, he made a point of looking out for me – a small gesture, but unforgettable for a shy little boy.
He was taking business classes at Creighton University when I was a freshman. When we drove home together during recess, he treated me like an equal. I felt like one of the gods had stooped down and touched a mortal.
He offered to lend my friend his car for spring dance that year. We walked down California Street to pick it up. Terry’s roommate said he and the car were gone, on their way to Hawaii. I was speechless. What kind of guy just drives down the highway to the coast? Was he James Dean?
He reached Los Angeles, saw the Pacific Ocean, and stayed for about 30 years. Eventually he got tired of the coast and moved to Longmont, Colorado, where he complained that “Californians were moving in and ruining the place.” That’s where he found Joyce. From then on they were together. They rode bikes, hiked, and camped together. Together they escaped the cold to a small town in New Mexico.
Joyce was the one who cared for him as his illness progressed. I have no words to tell her how grateful we were and are to her for everything she did. We received occasional reports on the progression of the illness. She saw it day after day, night after night. She lived through it all and continued to love him.
I realize that this memory of Universal Studios was a snapshot of Terry Gust’s personality. He was very devoted to his family, but he lived far from his home in the middle of South Dakota. He would never live here, but he couldn’t help but come back often enough to remember his roots and his relatives. He could be a cheapskate now and then, but he could also playfully fight with a kid over a pack of Cheez-Its.
Nancy always says he was the kindest, gentlest person she ever knew. When Nancy received a thick, handmade quilt in return 20 years ago after completing her breast cancer treatment, Terry wrote on it: “You are my anchor to my past, and without your joy and love calling me back here, I would be helpless.”
We were lucky enough to be able to share a cabin or house with Terry and Joyce for a few days during weddings in the Rocky Mountains over the past two years. The wedding festivities were loud, but Nancy and Terry found quiet moments to talk, laugh, and reminisce. She could tell he was slacking off, but in the middle she still found her big brother.
Since that morning call, we feel helpless ourselves. We will miss his joy and love.
