Mom

My mother, Oneta Ann Sheridan Brown, died in her sleep on October 17th, 2025. She was living at The Villa at Blue Ridge Nursing Home in Columbia, MO.

Mom was born on November 9th, 1940, in a barn, on a farm, near the town of Vandalia, MO. I took a few liberties with the truth in that last sentence. I do not think Mom would mind. She did have a sense of humor. I often heard her laughing while she whooped my ass. She could swing a mean crutch.

She is survived by her sons, Kevin and Keith Brown, and her younger brother, Jimmie Sheridan. Grandchildren Erin, Justin, and Amy. Great-grandchildren: Camden, Adalie, and Reed. Of course, Kevin was her favorite son. (Guess who is writing this.)

She was preceded in death by her parents, Albert and Liz (Elizabeth) Sheridan. I knew them by their alias: Grandpa and Grandma.

Her older brother, J.W., and younger brother, Billy Bob, have also passed. They both passed away too young.

During visits with Mom over the past few years, I have tried to learn more about her childhood. I did not learn enough. We always feel we will have more time.

I did learn that her grandfather and uncle operated a moonshine still during Prohibition. She told me about her uncle going to federal prison during Prohibition due to his extracurricular spirit activities. He never ratted on her grandpa. I will tell that story one day. Sheridan outlaw blood.

I do want to talk about Mom’s early years. These years tell of her fight for life and a never-give-up attitude. Mom was a strong woman.

When she was seven years old, she walked into the kitchen and fell to the floor. She would never walk again. She saw doctor after doctor before she was finally diagnosed with polio. She lost the use of both legs. She wore braces and walked on crutches much of the rest of her life.

Doctors said that she would not live for more than a few years. She died one month short of 85. They said that she would never have kids. She had two sons. She was told that she would never drive a car. She learned to drive in her 20s. She was told over and over again that she could not do this or that. She proved them wrong.

The years on crutches took a toll, and she needed multiple shoulder surgeries. She finally had to move into a wheelchair. Not just any chair, but a turbocharged chair. One that moved so fast that they had to put a governor on it so that she would not run over people in the halls of the nursing home. Natural selection, she called it.

She did not like the nursing home, but who does? One day, an administrator contacted me to let me know that Mom and one of her friends had left. I found out that Mom had driven that turbocharged chair some distance down the street to eat at a restaurant. She was always complaining about the food at what she called the joint. They also happened to stop at a liquor store on the way back and made a purchase. The evidence was located in her mini fridge. Busted. Life in the joint. Sheridan outlaw blood.

Per Mom’s wishes, there will be no service. On the 25th, the family will gather at the City of Laddonia Cemetery, where Mom will be buried next to her mom and dad.

If you knew my mom, I ask you to go to your mini fridge on Saturday at 2:00 PM and grab a spirit of your choice. Pour a little out, and relive a memory. She would like that.

(This was posted on Facebook two weeks ago. I add it here so that those not on facebook might find it.)

Brenda

I was sitting on the patio at my hotel restaurant, having lunch and watching people and traffic on Central Street.  Central is what Route 66 is called as the highway makes its way through Albuquerque. 

It was Sunday, and at times it looked like a parade of cars, trucks, and motorcycles on Route 66.  Some of the vehicles were old, and some were new. Many were painted so beautifully they looked like works of art.  They were all loud works of art.

I saw that as the parade went by, many honked and waved at the people sitting in their lawn chairs on the sidewalk across the street from me.  The folks in the lawn chairs would wave and yell back.

I could not tell how many people were sitting across the street.  My vision was partially blocked by a truck parked on the street.

The truck reminded me of Mater from the movie Cars.  Except that this truck was not rusted, nor was it a tow truck.  It was parked on Route 66.  I guess it could have been Mater’s little brother.

Mater’s brother

I decided that I needed to go across the street and talk to the folks.  They looked like they were having fun.  I wanted to meet them and have a conversation.

First, I needed to run up to my room and grab my memory maker.  I have often found that my camera helps break the ice.  It opens the door to conversation.  If I start by asking for a picture of the truck, it could then move into a group picture around the truck, and then to individual photos and conversations.  I had a plan.  Who knows, we might even talk cancer.

I ran across the street with my MM.  I found three women and three men sitting in the lawn chairs.  Of course, I approached the closest woman, because you know that it would be a woman in charge of this party.  It turns out that she was the owner of the truck.  I asked about getting pictures of the truck and the group around the truck.  I also told her about the photo project and fundraiser that I was working on.  She told me that her mother was a breast cancer survivor and that the lady sitting three chairs down was also a cancer survivor.  She said that I should definitely talk to her.

I walked down a few chairs and introduced myself to Brenda.  During our conversation I learned that four years ago, Brenda had gone into the hospital for a hysterectomy, and during the surgery cancer was found in her fallopian tubes.  The surgery then turned into a cancer operation.  Brenda came out of the surgery a cancer patient.

The cancer was discovered early, and since the surgery, her tests have found no evidence of disease.  She is in remission.

NED, no evidence of disease, is a phrase that I often think about.  It is a phrase I have never heard from my medical team when talking about Brutus.

I am reminded of the spread of my disease every two or three months when we check the numbers.  The doubling time of the disease is concerning.  In the past several years, Brutus has doubled every two to four months.  It varies from testing cycle to testing cycle.  Brutus most often doubles every three months.  The numbers climb and do not come down until I once again go on hormone treatments.  When the numbers go down to a lower level, the treatment is stopped.  I go off the drugs and try to get better.  The numbers will start to go back up, and the doubling time will once again be around three months.  This is my cycle of intermittent treatments.

How long can I stay on intermittent treatments?  Well, I have been on my treatment plan for years, but it could be coming to an end.  That is the feeling I get from my new oncologist.

My new doctor wants to see how my tests come out in November.  My last test was horrific.  We want to see if things go back to my standard doubling time pattern or if this is a new phase of Brutus that we have not seen before. 

My doubling time from my last test was calculated to be two weeks.  Two fucking weeks!  That is a concern.  That is crazy.  That has never happened before.  Fuck you Brutus.   

What is the cause of the dramatic growth?  Could it be the tumors they found in my chest near my heart?  Could it be the cancer found in my pelvic bones?  Could it be the tumor in my head?  Could it be a tumor or tumors that have not yet, but soon will show up on the scans?  All the unknown has been challenging to deal with.  Your mind wanders.  Sometimes it wanders into very dark areas.  My future becomes a big unknown.

While visiting with Brenda, I wondered how she dealt with the unknown of being in remission, but not yet considered cancer free.  I asked what advice she would give to a cancer patient.  At that time in our conversation, I was not sure if she knew that I was a cancer patient.  She shared her wisdom on how to deal with cancer by showing me the tattoo on her right forearm.  It read…One Day At A Time.

This is advice we have all read or heard before.  It applies to life in general, but most people do not feel the words.  I mean, really, feel the words.  They are felt when something significant happens in our lives.  It might not be cancer.  It could be many different things that would cause a person to evaluate what they are going through and realize that it helps if you adopt the wisdom of…One Day At A Time. 

One or two of those days I recommend you spend at the Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta. 

Thank you, Brenda, for the visit.

More than 600 balloons were at the Fiesta

Fierce

Fierce’s seventy-six-year-old grandmother passed in 2022 from cancer. She did not tell anyone that she had cancer, and she did not receive any treatments. One day, she checked herself into a hospital, and that is how the family found out about her cancer. A week later, she was gone.

Fierce believes that his grandmother did not tell anyone about her disease because she wanted to be in control. She did not want to do treatments, and she did not want anyone hassling her.

Fierce understood why she did what she did. He did not like it, but he understood the reasoning behind it. He just wished he had a little more time to say goodbye.

I understand his grandmother’s thinking. I have often thought that if I make it into my mid-seventies, it would be time to re-evaluate whether or not I should continue treatments.

I had an appointment with my new oncologist a week or two ago. Time flies. He was trying to gently pave the way for his future, and probably very soon advice that I go on permanent treatments for as long as they worked instead of the intermittent therapies I had been using for years.

When I saw the doctor, we were still waiting for my most recent PSA results. He was waiting for those results to give his recommendation.

I told the doctor that I was tired of all the tests, the surgeries, the radiation, and all the pills.

He told me that it was better than the alternative.

I told the doc that I was not sure about that.

Fierce, I think your grandmother would agree.