I’ve been thinking a lot lately about people who display extraordinary strength in the face of devastating circumstances.

Anyone who works in public safety has cause to both reassess and redefine the concept of extraordinary strength often, given the acts of selfless heroism that so often accompany the job.

That has certainly been my experience over the course of three decades in 911.

I have recently seen the concept of extraordinary strength be redefined once again — this time away from work and much closer to home, perhaps as definitively as it can be.

My long-time friend Todd was truly a brother to me. Short in stature but powerfully built and thickly muscled, Todd always wore his physicality gently as he strode through his days on legs as thick as my waist. A former football player and coach, he was quick to defend his Dallas Cowboys when challenged, but just as quick to lose himself in a convulsive belly laugh so contagious that anyone within earshot would join in, even if they hadn’t been privy to the conversation that set him off.

Todd was an old-fashioned gentleman, like I imagine men were in the 1940’s. Though not quick to anger, he was always an instinctive protector of women. He once visited me at a radio station where I worked back in my pre-dispatch days. My future wife, Mariah, worked there as well. As Todd and I were visiting in the broadcast studio, he spied Mariah and a male coworker in a physical (but friendly) back-and-forth through the big windows that ringed the studio. He immediately stopped our conversation and tensed up.

“She ok, Kris?” he asked, ready to pounce.

I assured him that what he was seeing was friendly and normal, and he slowly relented.

I saw him do this dozens of times over the years, often when someone he didn’t know appeared to be in trouble. It was never premeditated or fake. It instinctively came from his heart.

I could write hundreds of pages detailing our conversations, adventures and uncontrollable laughter together.

I could write hundreds more telling you about his huge heart and his indisputable greatness.

My life has been infinitely better because Todd has been in it.

Moments ago, as I was penning this tribute to him on an airplane in his beloved Dallas, I learned that he has succumbed to the pancreatic cancer that had been a part of his life for far too long.

The disease has been unrelenting, stripping Todd of every ounce of muscle that once defined him. The pain he has endured has been unfathomable, with few moments of relief. His treatments were equally punishing.

Through it all, Todd powered forward. The instinctive protector didn’t take time to complain – instead, he continually checked to make sure that his family was ok.

I visited him recently in the hospital and felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach when I saw him in his bed, physically weaker than I could have possibly imagined.

He was astonishingly frail in appearance. His eyes were half-lidded, as the morphine drip worked to lessen his unrelenting pain.

I leaned in close, fighting tears.

“Hey, brother,” I whispered. “I’m here and I’m going to put a Denver Broncos cap on your head if you don’t wake up.”

Slowly, his eyes blinked open, a slow smile crossing his face and lighting up his features, just like it always had.

“Heeeey,” he whispered, recognition washing over his face. “Kris.”

I took his hand and held it as we talked and told stories, laughing like we always had.

It was in that moment that I realized that the strength Todd has always been known for was still there, flaring up in his eyes, in the way he looked at me, in our instant connection as friends and brothers.

I could feel it emerge, huge and powerful.

Despite the cruelty of the cancer and what it took from him physically, his spirit was rippled with muscle and awash with vigor.

I saw it in that moment.  Despite everything. All the pain. The lack of hope.

There it was, still.

In the days that followed, under hospice care, Todd returned home to spend his final days with his family.

He passed with them by his side.

100 pounds lighter, scarcely able to move and fighting back unimaginable pain, Todd never became less than he was, despite all that had been taken from him. His spirit shone like the sun, the warmth he exuded enveloped those around him and his smile was still vibrant and alive.

Cancer took his physicality. It had no chance to take his spirit.

The last thing he said to me in the hospital, the final time I would see and talk to him, as he fought through pain to give me a hug:

“Let’s go get dinner when I get out of here.”

I will miss you with all my heart, my friend.

You were true strength personified, right until you left us.

Save me a seat for that dinner.

I’ll join you when I get out of here.

About Kris Inman:

Kris Inman is the Director of Program Development for The Healthy Dispatcher. A 29-year veteran of 9-1-1, Kris retired in July 2023 as Director of Springfield Greene County 9-1-1 in Springfield, MO. An awarded speaker and instructor, Kris has delivered standout educational sessions, keynotes, motivational talks and yoga instruction to dispatchers across the country. He is also a long-time college adjunct instructor, teaching courses in communication and public safety leadership. Kris holds a Master of Arts in Communication and a Bachelor of Science in Electronic Media from Missouri State University. He is also a registered yoga instructor.