March 16, 1958-June 6, 2004

This is what she looked like when I first met her in Chicago, almost 20 years ago. God, she knocked me out.

This is where people can look who remember her or want to know more. This is the official website for her and Reed Waller’s wonderful Omaha the Cat Dancer.

And this is what I wrote for the Comics Buyers Guide just after her death. Four years later, nothing has changed…

When word got out recently about Kate’s cancer, we received a flood of notes from friends and fans. Some offered financial support – certainly a welcome gesture after two hard years of radiation treatments, chemotherapy and consultations – while many others took time to express their devotion to her and her work. It was an astonishing outpouring of respect and affection: gifts of love tendered, in the words of one fan, “because she’s a national treasure.” That she was, and more. The condolences from fans in other countries are just beginning to come in.

Kate wrote a number of things, and she wrote them well. But it was for her work in collaboration with Reed Waller that she’ll be remembered, for they were as perfect a writer/artist combo as could be imagined. With Reed’s gorgeous visuals to inspire her, she transformed Omaha into one of the most important comics of its time … and, in turn, the freedom Omaha gave her allowed Kate to transform herself into one of the most important and necessary writers to emerge during the amazing creative renaissance which the medium experienced during the ’80s and ’90s.

Her work was deceptively simple, but those who really know the craft recognize just how difficult it is to do what she did better than anyone. The seemingly off-the-cuff – yet marvelously polished – chitchat of her characters, the casually brilliant evocation of the rhythms of everyday life, the transmutation of soap opera into social drama, the revelation of character contained in the book’s notorious naughty bits … made Omaha a remarkable one-of-a-kind achievement. Neil Gaiman once wrote that “it could be used as a manual in the craft of creating comics in serial form,” and I wouldn’t be surprised if someday that came to pass. When people look back at those heady creative decades, I believe Omaha will stand alongside Neil’s Sandman and the work of Alan Moore at the apex of individuality and sheer craftsmanship. Neil and Alan made readers understand comics in a new way, while Kate and Reed created comics that made the readers understand themselves. That’s why those readers love them to this day.

It’s still inconceivable to me that she’s gone. Those who encountered her at conventions will remember her gleaming star power and take-no-prisoners intelligence, the big heart she wore on her sleeve, her ability to make strangers feel instantly befriended, the trademark burgundy hair and that broad killer smile. In our years together I knew her as a loyal and supportive partner, a warm and endlessly inventive parent, the lover who made late night smalltalk a remarkable journey, the bravest person I’ve ever known. Having her as my wife truly made me a better person. She was my treasure and my miracle.

She was diagnosed with lung cancer and related brain lesions two years ago, and under the care of a terrific team of doctors she actually managed to beat the disease. But only a few months after she was declared cancer-free, a pair of new tumors were detected in an area of her spine that was nearly impossible to treat. From that point on she knew her time was short – but she never lost her positive approach to the life she had left. She hated to hear anyone call her brave; she insisted that she was just being pragmatic. But she knew that she was living under a deferred death sentence, and though it was frightening, she refused to let that fear paralyze her or drag down the people she loved. I’m astonished by her courage, and immeasurably grateful for the time we had.

Kate passed away unexpectedly the afternoon of June 6. Until that day, she had been busy working on a new script, dealing with the kids, listening to music, making plans. I sat with her as she slept, keeping her company while she murmured gently as though in response to a dream. When the time came, she left us quietly and easily, at home in her own bed with the sound of her children playing in the next room, secure in the knowledge that she was loved.

I can only hope she knew just how many people did love her, and with such devotion.

What will haunt and comfort me forever – even more than the brilliance of her smile or the warmth of her voice – was a brief moment about halfway through that final day. Sometime during those dream-state hours, there was a point when she stopped murmuring to the unseen. Her eyes cleared, she looked directly at me and said, “You’ve done everything you can. Thank you.” And she drifted off again, as though her final task was complete. She died big-hearted and generous, just the way she’d lived her life.

Thank you, baby, for enriching so many lives on your way through the world. You did everything you could, too, and you did it beautifully.

filed under Bemusements