LATIMES.COM S THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 2020A
But once you really got to
know Don, you learned that
he was a connoisseur of
good living, a lover of expen-
sive cigars, good wine and
the opera. He also cherished
the beauty of the American
West and frequently visited
its national parks.
A native of Austin, he
was a proud graduate of the
University of Texas and a
rabid Longhorns football
fan. His wardrobe consisted
mostly of UT apparel —
burnt orange hats, jackets
and T-shirts. Even his bed-
spread was emblazoned
with “University of Texas
Longhorns.”
It had not been an easy
life. His father, Darrell A.
Hunt, died in 1947 trying
unsuccessfully to rescue his
1 1-year-old brother-in-law
from drowning. Don was
three at the time. His
mother, Opal Marguerite
Hunt, raised him and his
younger brother, Mike,
alone.
Opal was determined to
make a good life for them. A
stenographer, she worked
her way up to adminis-
trative secretary in the
Texas Welfare Department,
bought her own home in a
working-class neighbor-
hood and saw both her boys
graduate from UT.
“It was very rough bring-
ing up two sons on her own,”
said Phil Worley, a cousin
who was more like a brother
to Don and Mike. “To be hit
with something like that so
young, it was quite an ac-
complishment to keep going
and to be successful. Don
always admired her for
that.”
Some of my fondest
memories with Don were
enjoying some great Texas
music together.
At the Hollywood Bowl
we saw Willie Nelson, who to
us represented a new Texas
cool, a country singer-song-
writer whose phrasing was
more jazz club than honky-
tonk. I can still hear the
mournful strains of “Blue
EyesCrying in the Rain”
and the galloping rhythm of
“On the Road Again.” We
also saw the legendary
Texas band the Flatlanders
at the Troubadour.
During some of our out-
ings we talked about his
wife, Frances, whom he had
been separated from for
years but remained close,
and our mothers. Don went
to great lengths to take care
of Opal toward the end of
her life. He would fly home
several times a year to visit
her in a nursing home,
sometimes sleeping on the
floor by her bed.
I was also close to my
mother, Delfina Valdez
Lozano. I was the middle
child of nine and, at 18, the
oldest and still living at
home when my parents
divorced. As hard as life
could be sometimes, my
mother never complained.
After the divorce, she ran a
child-care business out of
our house. It seemed like
she raised half the neighbor-
hood. And she loved it.
On our days off, Don and
I would often go on long
walks. After one particular
hike in August 2011, he called
to tell me he wasn’t feeling
well. It wasn’t just fatigue,
he said.
He went to the doctor
the next day and began a
series of tests. A few days
later, he called to give me
the news.
It was cancer. Eight
brain tumors, as well as
cancer of the esophagus.
Don, whose mother had
died a few weeks earlier, was
told he had six months to
live.
We both cried, and I told
him I loved him.
Don had one close call
before. A few years earlier,
after initially believing he
had an ear infection, he was
stunned to learn that he had
suffered a brain aneurysm.
The doctors told him the
weak blood vessel could
rupture at any moment and
they needed to operate that
day. He spent a long night in
surgery.
The next morning, I went
to see him in the intensive
care unit. He woke up and,
without his glasses, he
squinted to make out who
was hovering over his bed. I
leaned in closer and said, “I
bet you didn’t think you
would see me in heaven.” We
both laughed.
Don always had a good
sense of humor and I got a
kick out of his braying hee-
haw laugh. He told me that
if he had to pick someone to
play him in a movie, he’d
pick Don Knotts. I think he
owned every episode of “The
Andy Griffith Show” in
which Knotts played the
bumbling but loveable
Deputy Barney Fife. When
Knotts got his star on the
Hollywood Walk of Fame,
Don was there.
But his own life bore little
resemblance to his comedic
hero. In his last weeks of life,
Don never lost his strength
of character or his dignity.
I’m sure there were times
when he was scared or de-
pressed, but he never
showed it.
I remember sitting with
Don on one of his final days,
watching the New Orleans
Saints play the Detroit
Lions on television. He
turned to me and said, “I’m
really going to miss foot-
ball.” And that was it. We
went back to watching the
game.
Three days later, Jan. 10,
2012, a friend called to tell
me that Don had only a few
hours left and if I wanted to
see him I better go now.
I rushed to his Sierra
Madre home, where taped
to the front door was a sheet
of paper with a message in
large block letters: Do Not
Resuscitate. Don lay in a
rented hospital bed upstairs
and occasionally I could
hear him moaning in pain,
his breathing labored. His
nurse administered more
morphine and soon the
house was quiet again.
A few close friends gath-
ered around his kitchen
table downstairs to wait it
out. About 9 p.m., Don’s
breathing had faded to a
whisper. The nurse sug-
gested it was time to turn off
his ventilator. Don’s brother,
Mike, was on a flight from
Houston but luckily, I man-
aged to catch him during a
layover in Las Vegas. I told
him what the nurse advised.
“I think that’s the right
thing to do,” Mike said,
knowing Don would be gone
before he arrived.
The four of us there
gathered around Don’s bed
to say our goodbyes, to hold
him and to tell him how
much we loved him. “You’re
the best friend anyone could
ever have,” said a tearful
Beth Troy, a Times copy
editor and one of Don’s
closest friends.
We told him it was OK to
let go. We didn’t know if he
could hear us. He had been
in a drug-induced sleep for
hours. He lay awkwardly, his
body turned slightly to the
left, a stiff hand curled at his
face. His skin was a pasty
white and his light brown
hair matted with sweat. The
only moving object in the
room was the second hand
on the clock by the bed; the
only sound, the low hum of
the ventilator.
A moment passed. A
sudden click from the venti-
lator. Then silence.
Five months later, I was
in Houston visiting my
mother. She had turned 80
on Jan. 12, two days after
Don died, and I was deter-
mined to spend more time
with her. I had gotten up
early to take a walk to avoid
the stifling summer heat
and when I returned I was
surprised to find her bed-
room door still closed.
I hesitated for a moment
before opening the door,
because I sensed that once I
did, our family’s life would
never be the same. And it
wasn’t.
The stroke had left my
mom partially paralyzed,
and except for a few words
—yesand no, mostly —
unable to talk. She could
comprehend things but it
was unclear how much.
She had been the loving
spirit in our family, the one
who kept the fragile peace,
the bright light in our little
universe.
Now that light was gone.
We were on our own and
argued about her care,
tensions fueled by the petty
rivalries of nine siblings.
After more than a year of
hoping and praying she
would recover more of her
cognitive abilities, we were
told there was no chance her
condition would improve.
So we made the painful
decision to place her in
hospice care. This meant
turning off her heart defib-
rillator.
But Delfina Valdez
Lozano had defied the odds
all her life and was not going
to surrender easily to death
or God.
Like many women of her
generation, she never went
to college, never learned to
drive and never knew a life
without work. Her single
greatest talent was for
living, her life was her art.
She loved to laugh, she loved
to talk and she loved to cook
because she loved people.
“The skillet makes the
home,” she often said. And
so her house was always
filled with friends and fam-
ily, often united in someraucous birthday or holiday
celebration.
She was the most selfless
person I’ve ever known.
Even after they were long
divorced, she took care of
my father after his heart
surgery. It was no small
irony that a woman who
sacrificed her whole life forothers suffered from an
enlarged heart.
For her, it was simple:
Love was action. It was
about the contributions we
make to one another’s lives.
In the end, my mother
would live 18 more months,
longer than her doctors and
caregivers ever imagined.We had finally found a
small nursing home in a
good location, with good
doctors, but a problem
loomed: The Medicare
money was running out and
the facility didn’t accept
Medicaid. I dreaded anoth-
er family fight and looking
for another nursing home.
A few months earlier, I
had received a surprise call
from Mike Hunt. “Did you
know Don left you in his
will?” he said. No, I told him,
I did not. He offered no
details and told me I would
hear from the estate.
One day at home, I was
tossing out junk mail when I
noticed a letter from a San
Diego law firm. I couldn’t
imagine what it was about
but thought I better open it.
Inside was a check for
$100,000.
I immediately sat down
and called Mike. “There
must be some mistake,” I
said.
“No,” he said. “Donwanted you to have this
money.”
Don never even hinted he
was going to do this. But
when I think back on it now,
it makes perfect sense. Don
was way ahead of me.
When my mother’s Medi-
care funds were exhausted,
she did not need to move.
She died about the same
time Don’s money ran out.
On my mother’s grave
marker are carved the
words “Only Love Endures.”
Don certainly proved
that to be true. When I think
of him now, at Thanksgiv-
ing, my mind turns to the
first line of “David Copper-
field,” where David wonders
whether he will turn out to
be the hero of his own life.
Don Hunt turned out to
be the hero of my life. So, if
you’re listening Don, I just
want to say thank you for
thinking of me in your most
difficult hour and to tell you
that I still miss and love you
dearly, my friend.A colleague died but had one more gift to give
DON HUNT,right, and his cousin Phil Worley at
the 2006 Rose Bowl game between Texas and USC.Phil Worley[Gift, from A1]