Earthly angels renew his faith
Wife's disease and death left Colerain man bitter, but community's outpouring of love changed everything
BY CLIFF RADEL | CRADEL@ENQUIRER.COM



At the end, he would hold her eyes open so she could watch TV.

Ken Murnan did everything he could for Donna, his wife of 23 years, the mother of their six sons and the woman he stuck with the goofy nickname "Vern."

Try as he might, he couldn't save her from the ravages of ALS, amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.


For three years, he bathed her and carried her to and from the bathroom. After she lost the ability to swallow, he fed her through a feeding tube.

When the neurodegenerative disorder commonly known as Lou Gehrig's disease stopped her from speaking, Murnan read her lips. And when they stopped working, he talked with her through the blink of an eye.

He lost Donna Oct. 16. She was 47.

"They buried her on Sweetest Day," Murnan said. Her funeral took place 24 years to the day after he bought her engagement ring.

While trying to raise six sons ages 11 to 21 on his own, Murnan still grieves. He's having a rough go of it. He admits to having some dark moments where he felt bitter about his lot in life.

After encountering a host of earthly angels, he had an epiphany. He itched to share this experience. So, he wrote a letter to The Enquirer. He wanted to make others aware - not just people in his West Side neighborhood - of his plight and the kindness of strangers.

"These acts of love," he wrote, "have had a profound effect on my six boys and me."

Donna's disease drained their savings. Bills get paid with money from fundraisers organized by friends, family and, in some cases, perfect strangers, many from the West Side, lots from the Murnans' parish, St. James in White Oak.

"Gifts are still pouring in," he said. A pile of gift cards and checks sat on his kitchen table. The only name on the checks: Murnan.

On medical disability from his job selling office supplies, he swallows pills for depression, anxiety and insomnia.

"Days go by," he said looking out the kitchen's bay window and rubbing his eyes, "and I can't sleep." His mind still thinks he must be awake in case "Vern needs me."

On a shelf above the bay window rested a framed illustration of a woman in gardening gear.

"Vern put that there," Murnan said, almost absent-mindedly.

The gardener in the drawing holds a basket brimming with the day's harvest. Over her head floats a gentle reminder: "Plant kindness." At her feet, letters spell out the reward: "Gather love."

"That was Vern," Murnan said, shedding tears. "Always helping someone." Now, her husband and sons are gathering the love her kindness planted.

This makes Ken feel guilty. He regrets cursing humanity for his bad luck. He berates himself for letting unfinished "thank you" notes languish in his living room.

He cursed humanity when, as Donna was diagnosed with ALS, things went sour for him at work.

"I came home the night after she was diagnosed," he recalled, "and I was bawling my eyes out."

A song on the car radio reminded him of Vern. The tune was "Badge" by Cream. The line that got him was: "Thinkin' 'bout the times you drove in my car."

Murnan walked into the living room and tried to put his fist through the wall. He hit a spot backed by a stud. The wall didn't budge. But his right hand did. Four bones smashed. Three tendons torn. Still hurts to shake hands.

The "thank you" notes remain unfinished because he believes words can't express what he feels about "the angels verging on saints" who helped Donna.

His guilt drove him to write to The Enquirer.

"Events occurred in my business and personal life . . . that left me cynical, bitter and convinced folks cared about no one but themselves," he wrote.

Then, Donna got sick. Angels came forward.

"The acts of unconditional love that have been bestowed upon our family have been nothing short of amazing," he added.

"How wrong I have been."

Murnan's epiphany restored his faith in humanity. But he insists on finishing those "thank you" notes.

No need, the angels say. Eight of them gathered over lunch Saturday at a Monfort Heights restaurant.

To a person, the angels - close friends and casual acquaintances, most affiliated with St. James parish, and Ken's sister, Maureen Baker - were in agreement.

"We didn't do this for thanks," Laura Herrmann said.

"Donna was our angel on earth," Merri Beth Hebeler said.

"His letting us help with fundraisers, with bringing over food, folding clothes, doing laundry, taking Donna on rides, was thanks enough," Baker said.

"What kind of person would I be if, one day, I woke up and found out I hadn't done anything for this guy?" said Bill Buelterman, a classmate of Murnan's from Elder High School's class of 1975. "He has helped so many folks by coaching their kids in baseball and cheering them up when they're down."

Buelterman is also his old classmate's Monday night cornhole teammate at Crossroads Sports Bar & Grill. He stepped in when Murnan's dad died unexpectedly at 90 on July Fourth.

"I lost my best friends last year," Murnan said. "Dad and Vern."

Ken Murnan of Miami Heights and Donna Oldendick of Groesbeck met at Crowley's Pub in Mount Adams on St. Patrick's Day 1980. They married three years later. A dozen years passed, and they had six sons.

David, 21, majors in civil engineering at the University of Cincinnati. Eric, 20, studies molecular genetics at Ohio State. Kevin, an 18-year-old Colerain High School senior, will join his brother in the field of genetics at Ohio State. Chris, 16, is a sophomore at St. Xavier High School. Zach, 14, and Jake, 11, attend St. James School.

The Murnan brothers are coping with the loss of their mother. "We're OK" is the older brothers' stock answer.

"I miss my mom a lot," Jake, the youngest, said. "I miss her smile and how she always helped me."

He appreciates the angels who came to his family's rescue.

"If you gave them a million dollars each, it wouldn't be enough."

Jake's words caused his dad to turn toward the kitchen window. His gaze caught the framed drawing with the message: "Plant kindness. Gather love."

Ken Murnan picked up a copy of the letter he sent to The Enquirer and read the last line.

"If nothing more becomes of this note, maybe it lifted your spirits."