Famed American broadcaster Paul Harvey always ended his news cast with the words, “and now you know the rest of the story.” After I recently wrote about Terry and Cindy Regier’s battle to rebuild their lives following his life threatening aneurysm, their son Jacob said, “Dad told a great story, but he missed 80 percent.” Hearing Cindy’s version subsequently, I felt obligated to follow in Paul Harvey’s footsteps.

“Terry was a big strong man,” Cindy began. “His position as foreman on a railroad section gang required hard physical work. He was 28 and I was 26. We already had 2 sons, three year old Jesse and three week old Jacob. When I received a call telling me he had collapsed on the job and the doctors didn’t know what was wrong, I was scared out of my tree. His boss gave me a ride to Calgary in his pick-up. I left Jesse with our good friends and took along my newborn.”

Terry was in a Calgary hospital for 2 months, then after 6 weeks at home was returned to the hospital for brain surgery. Blood was getting into his brain. He had lost his balance, coordination and memory. “He didn’t recognize me or our 2 sons. Three times they called me to come in because they said he might not survive this one. There were a lot of tears.”

Terry and Cindy’s dream was to own a farm and they had just made an offer on a quarter section north of Edmonton. “When the lawyer came to the hospital with the paperwork, Terry could sign it only with an X.”

We lost friends. “Some people didn’t believe Terry would ever recover. They urged me to leave him. Social services would help financially only if I divorced him and sold the farm. I wouldn’t consider that.” While Terry was still in the ICU, the doctors told her he might never be able to function on his own again and she should check out other care options. She followed their advice but decided this would hinder his recovery.

“I couldn’t accept that Terry didn’t remember me or the boys,” she said. “One day I told the nurses in ICU I wanted them to have him sitting in a chair when I came in. I dressed up the way I had when we were still dating and going to dances. The nurses were upset when I brought the boys into the ICU, but I insisted. I wanted to spur him on.”

She placed Jesse on Terry’s knee but the child sensed something wasn’t the same about his father. She then helped Terry hold Jacob. “I watched his face and a light came on in his eyes. He seemed to realize he had reason to move ahead.”

Their circumstances continued to be bleak. “We lived on $500 a month. Local Ukrainian ladies taught me how to make cottage cheese. I sold it and also cream. The farm provided meat, eggs, vegetables and milk.”

Terry became very depressed when they sent him home. His father had taught his sons to be independent. Now he was in a wheelchair. He had to start over.

There were some rays of hope. Cindy was encouraged by a plaque in the home of Terry’s mother. It said, “Put a little fence around today. God will help you with today. Don’t worry about tomorrow.”

Her grandmother was a huge source of strength. “She got married at age 16 and bore 11 children. They homesteaded in Manitoba in the horse and buggy days. She told me, ‘You married a good man and he’s still a good man. Straighten your spine.’ She called and visited me often. Her support and my faith helped me get through this time.”

Terry had a strong will. When he saw Jacob roll over for the first time, he said, “before this boy crawls, I will be walking.” In time, with unrelenting perseverance he regained his ability to walk. Cindy became equally gritty, holding the family together, encouraging Terry, helping with the farm work and embarking on a nursing career.

Except for a black pirate’s patch over one eye to prevent double vision, Terry has largely recovered. Today he and Cindy are contributing members of the Hedley community. “The experience has made us stronger,” Cindy said, “especially in our marriage, family and faith.”

And now you know the rest of the story.

A black patch over his right eye gives Terry Regier a rakish pirate-like appearance. Add to that the black leather jacket, some facial hair and a distinctive, somewhat jaunty gait and we might suppose he had just disembarked from Captain Hook’s “Jolly Roger”. Behind the outer image is an experience that could have devastated his marriage, his family, even his own life. After a conversation with him over coffee and Linda’s brownies in the sun room of our home, I concluded Terry and wife Cindy are two of the most resilient, persevering individuals I’ve ever met. For them there was a life before the patch and another life after.

At the outset of our conversation, Terry’s mind seemed to slip into an earlier time when all was still well. “I was born in Walkerton Ontario,” he began. “In my last year of high school I took carpentry and architectural drafting. When work became hard to find, 3 guys and myself travelled to the west. Our goal was to find jobs before our money ran out. My money did run out, but then someone offered me work in Alberta.”

Meeting Cindy, a young woman with a cheerful personality and a winning smile, added a positive dimension to his life. They got married, bought some land and began a family.

Hired to work on a railroad section gang, he watched for job openings with higher seniority. “Often no one wanted these positions because they didn’t want to move,” he said. “I was willing to work away from home. I stayed in motels, and sometimes in a tent.” He was ambitious and did whatever was needed to improve their circumstances.

Terry was at work on his railroad job when their happy world crashed. “I had been experiencing severe headaches,” he recalled. “On May 15, 1989 I lost my balance and fell to the ground. My co-workers dragged me to a truck and drove me to the hospital in High River.”

He was paralyzed on one side and the doctors at first thought he’d had a stroke. “I had difficulty talking,” he said. “My brain was swelling on one side and this put pressure on the other side. They performed surgery to relieve the pressure. The doctors figured out it was all from an aneurysm.” He was only 28.

For Cindy it was a traumatic time. They lived on acreage and she needed to feed the hogs and chickens, plus look after 2 year old Jesse and one month old Jacob. Added to this they were in the midst of selling the property and buying a quarter section.

“I wanted to farm,” Terry said, “but now I couldn’t read the document the lawyer brought to the hospital for me to sign. I didn’t recognize Cindy or my 2 young sons. Altogether, I was in the hospital 3 months. I had to learn to talk again and to walk. When I was released from the hospital we drove to Calgary, an hour from our farm, every second day for physio. We also needed to figure out our financial situation. It was a horrible time.”

Some women might have walked away from a man whose body and mind were in such a chaotic state. Fortunately Cindy had staying power and didn’t throw up her hands in defeat. “She began training to be a nurse,” Terry said,.“It was a matter of necessity. I was making progress in recuperating, but it was very difficult.”

Although his physical capacity was limited and he’d lost much of his memory, Terry persisted in his dream. “After we bought the quarter section,” he said, “I began buying cheap used equipment for our little farm. It was equipment no one else wanted. I was able to adapt and make it work. We had sheep, chickens, cattle and a garden. I wasn’t a good farmer but the place supplied our needs.”

At this point Terry reached for a brownie and Linda replenished his coffee. “The patch is to prevent double vision,” he said, as though to explain it’s not a big deal for him. “We have 3 adult sons now. I’m a director at the Community Club and Cindy is treasurer. I put the coffee on for the morning coffee group. I also play crib several evenings each week. Cindy plays the piano at the little church here.”

Terry and Cindy endured the dark days together, and beat the odds. Now life is good again.

Mr. Loeppky lived almost next door to us. His wife had divorced him at an earlier time and we referred to him as “the bachelor.” His fortunes had deteriorated markedly since the divorce and his home now was a two room shack he had constructed himself.

No paintbrush had touched the exterior in many years. The interior was equally unadorned. It was furnished with little more than a kitchen table, old green fridge, woodstove and an aged chest of drawers. He did have cupboards and a sink with hot and cold water. A yellowed sheet hung in the doorway to the bedroom. Cracked, grey linoleum covered the floor. A perpetual pall of tobacco smoke pervaded the place. His bathroom was a one-seater outhouse.

Mr. Loeppky’s surroundings had not always been this sparse. In his earlier, more affluent years, he had owned and managed a successful automotive dealership in a prairie town. A skilled mechanic, he had at first done much of the service work himself, always, as he volunteered one day, “with a flask in my back pocket.”

Former townspeople of that time spoke of him almost reverentially. They had considered him a high roller, respected for his business acumen. “His home was one of the finest. He had plenty of money and he loved to party,” one woman recalled. “In conversation he was engaging. People clamoured to be around him.”

Somewhere along the way a fondness for strong drink overtook his earlier good judgment. Business began to slip and his wife, possibly aware financial ruin might be approaching, became involved with a local lawyer. Mr. Loeppky did not see the divorce looming.

I was only 14 when I began visiting him. By then he had long been stripped of family, wealth and good standing in his community. Everything he had once valued was gone. Still, at age 65 there lingered about him a trace of his earlier good looks and outward refinement.

Even now I have only a vague understanding of why I was initially drawn to visit this once proud, successful man. Possibly it was the doughnuts he made occasionally. Almost no one visited him, so I realize now he made them mostly for me.

I don’t think he ever consciously decided to tell me his life story. Certainly he didn’t take me back to the early years and lead me through a logical sequence of events to the present time. Rather, the details came out like pieces of a puzzle, especially at the end of the month when his pension cheque allowed him to purchase a bottle of gin and a can of McDonald’s tobacco.

Sitting at his kitchen table with him, I watched as his trembling fingers rolled ungainly smokes and his mind slipped into the past. If he had doughnuts, he placed the large tin before me and said “eat.” While he talked, I observed those faded blue eyes as he resurrected scenes from earlier years.

Over time his breathing became laboured. One day he said, “the doc told me I have lung cancer. Guess it won’t be long before the Grim Reaper comes.” He continued to smoke and occasionally still made doughnuts.

Because he was no longer eating them himself, the doughnuts were lasting longer and were less fresh. The flavour of cigarette smoke was more discernible. Sensing it was important to him, I ate them anyway. His cough was becoming harsh and frequent. It troubled me.

Over all those years, Mr. Loeppky’s son and two daughters each visited only once. In his last months as he was dying, they still did not come.

He passed away in spring and I notified his family. A small neighbourhood church organized a memorial service at the local funeral home. I had told our friends about Mr. Loeppky, and a few came to bid him a final farewell. His son and daughters also arrived.

At the end of the service his son asked me, “Do you know what my father died of?”

When I could slip out I walked around to the back of the funeral home. I felt a deep sadness at the loss of my friend. Henry, a local photographer, was already there shedding his own tears. Standing beside him, I decided that, no matter what the difficulties, I would strive to nourish and retain the relationships in my life. I still consider this the gift of Mr. Loeppky.