HOPE OVER CIRCUMSTANCES

Facilitated and edited by Anne Granado

In March of 2020, Corporal William (Billy) Smith lost his beloved wife and Texarkana, Arkansas Police Department colleague after a fierce battle with glioblastoma, an aggressive cancer of the brain or spinal cord. The following is a letter to Holly about their relationship and their final months together before she passed. Though this was a difficult process, Billy wanted to talk about Holly. He wanted to share her testimony. For them, this was so much more than a battle against cancer. Holly’s story is one of hope-- hope in God, hope in family, hope in love.

I remember the first time we met. It was Spring of 2006, and we were both patrol officers assigned to the graveyard shift at TAPD. You were a young, beautiful, woman with a beautiful smile. I was immediately drawn to that smile. Working the neighboring beat, we started messaging. It started with just a “hi,” but I think we both knew that there was something special there. Neither one of us was looking for it, but it was organic. Do you remember the coke machine in College Hill outside the grocery store that sold twentyfive cent cokes? I bought you one, and we just kept talking.

We kept it secret for a while. We realized it would be frowned upon at TAPD, and we would be separated. But we couldn’t hide how we felt. One supervisor pulled us aside after a meeting and said, “I see how you look at each other at roll call, and it’s concerning,” and we knew we had to come clean.

What was it about you? So many things. You were supportive, unbelievably supportive in anything I wanted to do, even if it was dumb. Your default was just “support him,” and I tried to do the same for you, but you were always better at it than me. I also feel like I’ve never been loved the way you loved me. You had a genuine love for me that never wavered. You were so well-rounded. I try to be funny, but you never had to try. You were naturally funny, and it meant that our marriage was never boring. We were together almost 15 years, and we still laughed together, even at hospice. We laughed all the way to the end.

We didn’t introduce our daughters at first. My Shelby was only six, and your Havannah was only four at the time. We wanted to wait until we were sure it would work out. But, once we knew it would, they hit it off from the very beginning. I got a picture from both of them the other day, and you would have loved it. I cannot believe that they are 20 and 18 now. They were eating together, and it warmed my heart. They are still friends: stepsisters and friends.

You were the best mom to Shelby, Havannah, and our little Ian who came in 2012. You were loving in all the ways that a mom is supposed to be. You were so fair. You always treated Shelby the same way you treated Havannah and Ian. They miss Do you remember how I proposed? I filed charges against you for stealing my heart. It was November 5, 2007, my birthday. I knew the best gift I would ever receive would be for you to say, “Yes.” I wrote the charges up by hand. I was scared that if it got filed somewhere, or if our colleagues and bosses found out, that you would say “No,” thinking that I didn’t know how much you hated the spotlight. The narrative describing the crime was three pages long, and at the end, I asked you to marry me. You turned around, and I was down on one knee. The details of my proposal were a secret, but we told Pastor Shreve at a counseling session, and I didn’t tell him we had kept it to ourselves. He told the story at our wedding, and we were outed to everyone. I’m not sure I ever lived it down.

We got married October 18, 2008. I think even from the wedding, it was clear that you were the tough one, and I was the softy. You were always stronger than me. I know that it’s supposed to be the other way around, but I couldn’t help it with you. When we picked our candle-lighting song, “Looking into

the Eyes of Love,” I couldn’t even make it through the introduction without crying. You kept telling me that I had to be “stoic” and that I couldn’t bawl during the entire ceremony. In the sanctuary, we walked up to the candle, and the song started. You looked at me and said, “Stoic.” We both laughed, and it helped settle me down. I was able to enjoy the moment. I was able to enjoy the entire wedding. I couldn’t believe how much fun we had, how little stress we had. It was truly an awesome day.

I loved that you always wanted to “make memories,” and you made sure I always had something planned. We always went on family vacations, but we always planned some time away for ourselves too. We sold our big house and our toys so that we could comfortably make memories at home and away from home. That was the best decision we ever made. I have 15 years of memories that will live with me for the rest of my life. In 2015, we started going on cruises. I drug my feet. I was scared to go on a boat, but you insisted. By 2020, we had been on eight voyages. If we had started sooner, I think we would have been on 50 cruises by now.

When I think back to some of our most fun times, I think about the music that played in the background. You were passionate about music. You played saxophone, and you had the most beautiful singing voice, even though you refused to sing karaoke. I remember telling the hospice nurse about your voice, and I saw you wave your arm at me, telling me to be quiet. I know that it embarrassed you, but I loved your voice. I was up there singing karaoke with my mediocre-at-best-voice, and you had all the talent sitting there quiet.

I grew up listening to country or gospel, but you didn’t have a favorite. You had the most eclectic taste in music, and you turned me into one of those people too. I realized I actually like 80’s hair band music. We saw Def Leppard four times, Journey two times, and we tried to go to concerts as often as possible.

I will never forget our last concert: Foreigner at the casino in Durant, Oklahoma, two days before your first surgery in April 2019. Before you got sick, I bought the tickets, the good floor seats. I couldn’t wait to surprise you, but in March, you started feeling numb in your right foot. We were in Hochatown with the family because we had rented a cabin. By that evening, you felt numb on your entire right side. I’m the hypochondriac, so I freaked out. You never have issues. You were never sick. You were always the strong one. We played it off at first, and we said it was probably a pinched nerve. We even wondered if it might be multiple sclerosis. We did the blood work panel and tried to process. Honestly, even as horrible as multiple sclerosis is, anything felt better than tumors or cancer. We held out

hope, but when the MRI showed a brain tumor, when the doctor said that it could be cancer, we fell apart together. I know we felt the shock of that moment and that it couldn’t be real. You were only 36 years old.

Our doctor referred us to a neurosurgeon in Sherwood, Arkansas: Dr. Ali Krisht. He scheduled surgery for April 23 to do a biopsy, craniotomy, and a removal if possible. It was overwhelming to me. As the date approached, I told you that I had planned a trip for us to go to Oklahoma but that we should cancel it. I will never forget what you said. You said, “Let’s do it because I don’t know when we can do it again.” At this point, you were completely numb on your right side and couldn’t walk without holding on to me, but you insisted we go. We drove to Durant, checked into the hotel, and then I suggested we drive past the casino. I still hadn’t told you about the concert, but as you watched the big marquee sign and Foreigner’s name popped up, you started to cry. You knew me well enough to know that this was the reason why we had made the trip. It ended up being the most special concert we ever went to. We both realized it could have been the last, and it was.

After the first surgery, we felt hopeful. Dr. Krisht said that he got half of it, but he also confirmed our worst fears: glioblastoma, one of the most aggressive and deadly cancers. He said that if we think of tumors as being cheese, a regular tumor is like cheddar, but this type is more like yogurt. Trying to remove it all is impossible. It leaves remnants everywhere. We did a second surgery a week later, and he got 95% of it. But we knew that it would probably grow back and grow back quickly. So, you went through chemotherapy and radiation for six and a half weeks. We were not prepared for you remaining paralyzed on your right side. We were not prepared for the expressive aphasia, the loss of speech. You were trying to talk to me, but the words would not come to mind.

I know how hard it was for you to be seen in a more vulnerable light. You were such an independent woman, a powerful woman. Relying on me

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was completely out of your normal. But this is when the strength in our marriage came in. We didn’t have a weak marriage, but we had become complacent at times. However, just knowing that you needed me, and me knowing that I needed you, God grew our marriage and showed us how strong it could be.

Through the rehab hospital, the chemo, and the radiation, we lived in one little hotel room. I wish it was as romantic as it sounds, but it housed me, you, Ian, and your mother, Renee Monroe. Finally, July 30, we did an MRI and it showed no visible signs of a tumor in your brain. I will never forget the joy of that moment, the feeling of answered prayers. We believed we had beaten this, and we celebrated. But I kept the prognosis to myself. You were smart. You never asked, and I never felt compelled to tell you. Renee and I both believed that once we said the words “grade four glioblastoma” that we might take away any fight that you had. If you told me “fight, but according to statistics I won’t live another year,” I would give up, and we didn’t want that for you. So, we began to duplicate all your therapy sessions at home. You were bound and determined to walk again.

When you got feeling back in your right leg, I thought, “We’ve beaten this, and she will walk again.” You fought, and fought, and then you walked. We would go up to Union School, and we would walk the halls together. We walked 1,175 feet one night, and we kept the secret to ourselves. We couldn’t wait to surprise everyone and felt like Christmas would be the perfect time to do it.

In August, we had a set-back. You had a pulmonary embolism that almost killed you. You lost a lot of ground that week, but you started right back at it when we got out of the hospital. However, I 0 1 6 I finally started back to work in August as well. The Texarkana, Arkansas Police Department, our friends, family, and church family could not have been more

supportive. People made shirts to sell, raffles, crawfish boils, and more. Texarkana supported us financially, emotionally, and spiritually. It was unbelievable how your story spread and how many people were praying for us around the city.

Not many people know this, but I actually saw you in 2001, long before we ever met at TAPD. I was there for one of the biggest moments in your life. I grew up in the church and became a Christian around 1986. But your story was different. You started attending Trinity Baptist Church later in life, and I was there on the Sunday when you were baptized. After we got together, I remember how I explained how important religion was to me, but honestly, over the years, you became a more influential Christian than I was. This was even more true after you got sick. You genuinely got closer to God and sought His will. I think this is what reduced your fear and anxiety more than any medicine could have done, but maybe what you didn’t know is that it also helped me. I am the scared hypochondriac. I know all about fear and anxiety when it comes to illness. But, you? You read the Bible, you trusted God. On Facebook, we posted a verse that you wrote with your left hand because your right hand remained paralyzed. It was Psalm 9:1, “I will give thanks to the Lord with my whole heart. I will tell all of your marvelous works.” I don’t think you even had a fear of dying. I think your only fear was for me and the kids, leaving us here. It was amazing to see your faith in spite of fear, and your trust in God, in spite of what was going on.

There was so much more to your journey than just, “Am I going to live through this?” You inspired others with your faith. You wanted to honor God in the midst of a horrible disease. I remember we witnessed to

every person we met along the way. I’m sure you know this, but hundreds of them still reach out to me about you and your story. When we revisited church for the first time since your surgery, we had been gone so long that new members didn’t know who we were, but your story spread. After a service, an elder called and said that six people wanted to know the God who had worked in your life. I don’t know the exact number of people who accepted Christ because of you, but I know that God was able to use your strength and your story to glorify Him.

Six months or so before you got sick, I know we watched our friends, the Haak’s, go through a similar situation. Stephanie was diagnosed with cancer and eventually passed, and you made it very clear that you didn’t want to go through what they had to go through. You said that if you ever did get sick like that, you would not entertain any thoughts of chemo or radiation. It concerned me a lot, and honestly, it was the first thing that came to mind when the doctor told us about the tumor. Were you going to refuse treatment? But you said you were going to fight it, I realized there was something else going on, a God thing. I wish you could see how much your story, your fight, has inspired others.

In January 2020, our daughter Shelby, who has lupus, had hip surgery in Dallas, and we went to see her. By this point, you were completely out of the wheelchair unless you had to walk long distances. You and I were able to see Shelby and show her how you could walk. But, after two nights in a hotel room, you woke up with pain in your back. We both thought you slept wrong, but I couldn’t stop myself from Googling. I saw that in very rare

cases, glioblastoma will drop down to the spine. It had happened less than 200 times in medical history, but I kept it in the back of my mind.

The pain got worse and worse. You have the highest pain tolerance, but you were still experiencing a 10 out of 10. There was no comfort. Pain pills only worked for one hour out of six before you could take another dose. In the middle of the night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I took you to the emergency room at St. Michaels, and they saw a mass on your spine. Even the doctors said that the glioblastoma hardly ever moved to the spine and that this was something else. But, that’s exactly what happened. We air-lifted to Sherwood, and Dr. Krisht met with us and did another surgery. He said he got 99% of it. I was so blessed by TAPD to be able to take more time off. I had missed six and a half months of a 12-month period. Then we went back to chemo, radiation and rehab, but I knew the prognosis: two to four months.

This next part is hard to relive. You kept fighting. Your strength was astounding. But this time, rehab was harder. You never did get the ability to stand. You didn’t have feeling in either of your legs. I had to lift you to put you in the wheelchair, but you couldn’t even put your legs down. I knew things were wrong. I took you back to the ER. They did another MRI, and they found more tumors on your spine. You didn’t want to go back to Little Rock, but I convinced you. I thought it was possible we were gonna get all of this, and we just had a long road to go. I wasn’t listening to stats because I still believed that God had a healing for you. I was right, but it was a heavenly healing, not an earthly one.

We went back to Little Rock, and we weren’t there

very long before things got worse. Even when you were losing mental capacity, you looked at me and you said, “I am done.” You had trouble speaking, but I knew what you meant. I said, “I know what you are saying, and I will take care of it.” I met with the team and the doctor and explained it to them. They wanted to do one more MRI, and they found another tumor in your brain. On March 12, they said that taking you home and going to hospice is probably the appropriate decision.

I felt like my life was crashing down around me. I knew your wishes, but there was a selfish side of me that wanted you to keep going. But I knew my selfishness would only cause you more misery. I had spent the last year caring for you and doing everything in my power to protect you, but at this point, I knew what I had to do, and it was excruciating. When I talked to the doctor and his nurse, I literally cried so hard that my heart began to skip. From that day to the day you left me, my heart gave me problems. My heart was literally breaking, but my love for you was so strong that I respected your wishes. That was the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make in my life.

For the ride back to Texarkana, we loaded you into an ambulance. We knew the drivers. They had taken us

several times to the cancer center, and they were going to be your ride home while I followed in our personal vehicle. Officer Munn, a TAPD officer and my friend for 17 years, drove to Sherwood to escort us. As we neared the 12-mile marker outside of Texarkana, I spotted a police unit, and as soon as he saw us, he turned on the lights. I became emotional once I realized what was going on. After that, every mile or two, more officers joined. At every interstate bridge, there were people lined up. Fire trucks had ladders stretched out with American and Blue Line flags. When we pulled up at hospice, the parking lot was full of people. The ambulance drivers got out and said, “What in the world was that?” They had never seen anything like it. I said, “Buddy, that’s how we roll in Texarkana.” I was so proud that he was able to see what we had seen the entire year. I was moved to say the least.

On March 17, you fell asleep and never woke up again. The goal became to make you comfortable and keep you from pain. I stayed with you the entire time. I would leave your side for 10-15 minutes to eat or shower, and then come right back. I knew it was coming, and I wanted to be with you when you took your final breath. Every night, the nurses told us bye, thinking that this night would be our final one, only to find us still

there in the morning. You went 16 days without food and water. No one could believe how much strength, will, and fight you had.

On March 25, the praise team from our home church, Vessel Church, wanted to come and sing outside your window. I contacted the whole family to be there at 6 p.m. so that we could worship together, and honestly, this was such a God thing. Because of the praise team, we were all together when you passed. I had stepped out to take a shower, and I got a call from your sister. She was crying and said you had passed. I threw my clothes on. I ran in crying. I picked you up and held you. You made a noise, and the nurse rushed in. You were still breathing. Your heart was still beating. I held you till you took your last breath. It was the best gift I ever had.

A little while later, I got a text message from the worship team who were waiting in the parking lot, and I let them know that you were gone. But the family and I agreed that we still wanted to worship. The team sat outside your window. Inside, the family and staff members gathered. Some of the staff who were already off work came back to join in. There were probably twenty people worshipping God right after you entered heaven. The music

You know, social media portrays that relationships are perfect. People smile in every picture, and every marriage looks perfect. We didn’t have the perfect marriage, that’s true. But I was truly married to my very best friend. I believe you were my soulmate. I miss the sound of your laugh. I miss you trying to throat chop me. I miss hearing your jokes. I miss listening to music with you. You were beautiful inside and out. You were one of the best officers and detectives that ever walked through the Bi-State. You loved your family. You loved your kids. Your generosity astounded me.

I know this sounds crazy, but I believe that you can hear me. I go every single day to the cemetery, but I can talk to you anywhere. Someone came to me recently and told me that you came to them in a dream and were worried about me. They said you had a message for me. You wanted to tell me to “do it better.” It was just a dream, but I believe that messages can be passed through dreams. So, I want to tell you that I’m going to try to do it better. Ian hasn’t cried since the funeral. I prepared myself for him to come to my room everyday crying, but instead, I am the one crying every day. You were the tough one. You always told me to suck it up and that I would be alright. I think I can hear you telling me that, even now. So, I’m going to try to do it better. I miss you. I love you. You will always be my wife. So, I will tell your story, your testimony. People worry about asking me about you; they don’t want to upset me, but you are my favorite subject. Your story is my favorite story. So, I will continue to tell it.

I love you, Billy

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