Bull riding is my favorite sport. There is nothing feminine about it—snorting, slobbering bulls, fearless cowboys, and animals at the height of their power. There’s danger, suspense, twists and turns, and breathtaking moments where everything hangs in the balance. Dealing with two complicated real estate transactions closing hours apart felt just like that. I just wish the ride had lasted eight seconds.
VST and I decided in early January 2020 that it was time to sell our Virginia City home—3,300 square feet of something we had lovingly restored. When we bought it, it had been an abused repossession, purchased at a bargain price with a vision to bring it back to life. Over six years, we did exactly that. Every detail in the house had been perfected for us—really, for anyone. By the time we decided to sell, only two projects remained: a proper laundry room and a bedroom closet. In January, VST completed both in just two weeks. They were flawless, just like everything he touched. If you hadn’t been told, you would have believed they were original to the home. He was that good.
The house was barely listed before it sold. In fact, we had only just decided to sell while driving home from lunch after looking at a few properties with a realtor. We had found two homes we liked, and on the drive home, we talked through the pros and cons of leaving the mountain. By the time we reached home, we had made the decision—it was time. The realtor we had been with that morning would be our agent. Within five minutes, my phone rang. Another realtor we knew had buyers who loved our home. Could they come see it the next day? We listed. They came. They fell in love. They offered. We accepted. All within hours of deciding to leave. Just like that.
At the same time, life continued as it always had. VST was driving, worrying about taxes, fixing things, calling me Darlin, and kissing me goodnight. We hadn’t yet found a new home, and at the end of January, we even took the RV on a seven-hour trip to explore options. We spent an entire day walking through ten homes. He was himself, just tired and noticeably swollen by the end of the day. He still drove the rig there and back, enjoying Willie’s Roadhouse and the open road. He promised we would see the doctor about the swelling when we got home.
Eventually, we found the house. One hour from Virginia City, a single-story ranch on half an acre of beauty. The property was fully landscaped with paths winding through mature fruit and shade trees. There was a lush green lawn outside my kitchen window, birdhouses scattered throughout, and birds already raising families. There was an RV barn with finished interior walls, a four-car garage, and a home that promised simpler maintenance and more freedom to travel. Three bedrooms, two baths, 1,907 square feet—it felt like peace. We both knew immediately. We made an offer. It was accepted.
That’s when everything began to spin.
We now had two realtors, a buyer, a seller, ourselves, and more paperwork than seemed possible. Our Virginia City home had never been placed into our family trust, which needed to be domesticated in Nevada. That added an attorney and another stack of documents to the growing pile. And so, the ride began. Two weeks in, cancer entered the arena. We held on with both hands as life began to buck beneath us.
There were inspections, repairs, re-inspections, and endless requests from title companies, realtors, buyers, sellers, and escrow officers. There were attorney appointments, document signings that seemed to multiply endlessly, cleaning, walk-throughs, moving plans, canceling old services, and starting new ones. We hired movers and chose a closing date.
All while VST grew sicker.
And sicker.
And sicker.
Until, in nine short weeks, he was gone—from a word I could barely pronounce when it first entered our lives: cholangiocarcinoma. Cancer of the bile ducts.
We entered those transactions as husband and wife—joint tenancy, partners in everything. I completed them as a single woman. That reality carried its own weight.
My realtors, both experienced and steady, had never encountered anything like it. A healthy man overtaken so quickly. A client lost in the middle of a closing. We all walked through those two months together, holding each other—and our breath. There were constant twists, changes in direction, and moments where everything felt like it might collapse. COVID added uncertainty to an already impossible situation.
They carried more than contracts. They helped when my computer refused to cooperate. They handled details I am sure I am better off not knowing. They made the impossible happen. They talked me down on days when I was ready to walk away from everything. They listened, advised, and somehow gave me both space and support at exactly the right moments. In the early days of COVID, they risked their own health to show our home to buyers and to help me into my new one. They stayed on that ride with me and made sure both transactions closed within 24 hours of each other.
When VST died, I was alone. I had just checked on him—he was still there, quiet and comfortable. I stepped out of the room for five minutes. When I came back, he was gone.
The phone rang. I answered in a way I can only describe as broken—words tumbling, Grief pouring out, nothing making sense. On the other end was my sweet realtor, the first voice to reach me in that moment.
“Calm down,” she said gently. “I am so sorry. How can I help?”
There was no help.
We had lost our balance.
The bull had won.
Later, I began to notice something. In the smallest, most unexpected places, there were people—angels in ordinary clothing—who said those same words. At the post office. At the doctor’s office. A neighbor. Even the man making my sandwich at Subway. They had no idea what they were offering, but it mattered more than they could know.
I made a list of those moments and wrote thank-you notes. Not for grand gestures, but for simple kindness—for showing up, for steadying me, even for a moment. It became part of my healing.
Do the same.
Take time to acknowledge those who stand quietly in the background, cheering, holding their breath, helping you rise again. They are part of your story, too.
And when the ride feels too wild, too unpredictable—hold on.
Use both hands.
This is a tough bull to ride.
Dear readers,
However you found your way here—from across the world or just down the road—thank you.
This little life at Winterpast is richer because you’re part of it.
I’ll be here, with more to share.
—J