Their Graves Were Side by Side

Shortly after composing "The Next to the Last Chapter" in this blog, I contacted the funeral director I had chosen. I think the second question they asked me was "Are you a veteran?" I recounted my military service to them and they suggested that I bring in my military separation papers. They wanted to see if I qualified for husband and wife burial in Tahoma National Cemetery.

My military service consisted of an 8- year enlistment in the Washington Air National Guard, beginning in July of 1954. As it turned out, after four and-a-half years of that enlistment, I was flying with Northwest Airlines and that qualified me for an occupational deferment.

I spent the final three and-a-half years of my enlistment in the inactive Air Force Reserve. During that time, a lot of my flying was cargo and personnel on military charter flights. I had no actual "active duty" in any branch of the military. But the funeral director said, "The rules are changing all the time, and we'll just check and see if you qualify."

But unfortunately, the military does not make a determination until after the death occurs.

Well, we waited and waited and waited. Finally, just last Thursday I got the call from the military people in St. Louis: Permission denied because there was no active duty. Of course I knew that all along, but that wasn't the question they asked.

So I purchased side-by-side plots at Hillcrest Burial Park in Kent, just three miles from our home. By then, the soonest we could schedule burial was Tuesday, January 19th at 11:00 a.m. ...that was today.

The clouds held back their tears for our brief graveside service. The rest of us, not so much.

Our pastors from El Shaddai Ministries, Mark Biltz and Art Palecek, were on hand to conduct a brief and dignified tribute to our dear Bettie.

It was just the immediate family...and it was sad, very, very sad.

What else can I say.

While the memorial service on January 8th had its sad elements too, it also celebrated a life and was filled with supportive friends and comforting words. And there was the wonderful music, to cap it all off.

Today, there was no celebration.

But there was the lingering lyrics of the song my Northwest Sound chorus brothers had so artistically performed that day:

" ... then one day they died,

and their graves were side-by-side,

on a hill where robins sing

and they say violets grow there

the whole year round,

for their hearts were full of spring

in Love ... in Spring."

The Memorial

Even the heavens were crying as we slogged through a soaking rain into Grace Community Church, just before 3 p.m. on Friday, January 8th. Once inside though, things seemed to brighten. With Bettie's life as the central theme, gloominess simply could not prevail.

As I mentioned in The Next to the Last Chapter, plans for this service began a couple of weeks before...well let's just leave it at that. The hospice nurse had ventured that Bettie would probably not even make it to January. (That apparently needled Bettie just a little.) Though I had not written anything down, I had talked with our family about my ideas and what I knew of Bettie's desires.

With all of that in mind, I spent an entire day preparing what I thought should be in the program. (I'm still not sure what to call the printed hand-out. I guess program is as good as anything. Note: A copy of that "program" in pdf format is now posted just to the right of this text.) In all of the preparations, my underlying concept was a service that was befitting the woman we were remembering. It had to be classy, honoring, uplifting, and ministering, all at the same time. I wanted emotions to be free to flow, but not to become overly maudlin.

Over the next two weeks, things began to come together. I got editorial suggestions from the family and my pastor and his associate. Veronica and her sister Vicky began to comb through boxes of photos as they crafted a media presentation to highlight this extraordinary life. My chorus began to review a song that I had picked from last year's repertoire, because of its particularly suitable theme. I visited with Shelly Larson at Grace Community Church, who handled all the facility details flawlessly.

By that dreary Friday afternoon, though my obsessiveness over being on time had gotten us there 45 minutes early, there was little for the family to do. Flowers had arrived, the chorus was downstairs warming up, Jordan was tending to the guest book, and guests were arriving. We sat in a private reception room, nervously doing our best to ignore the reality in which we were immersed.

The chapel at Grace comfortably seats 150. Quite a few extra chairs were brought in, but, though rather full, the overflow space was not needed. Fifteen minutes before starting, Vicki Biltz began playing traditional hymns (Bettie's favorites) on the piano. Just past three, the service began.

Though I had thought it might be about forty minutes in length, it was actually very close to an hour. The service consisted of:

• Pastor Mark Biltz's message "The End of Life...and The End of Death".
• A photo montage with "Annie's Song" by John Denver and "I Can Only Imagine" by The Maranatha Singers.
• A time of sharing, stories and memories, hosted by Associate Pastor Art Palecek. (Seven people spoke, including our sons Steve and Jim.)
• Two song's by Northwest Sound Men's Chorus: "Their Hearts Were Full of Spring" and "The Irish Blessing".
• The Aaronic Blessing by Pastor Mark.

There was a time of fellowship with food afterward, during which the family was able to meet nearly all of the guests. During this time I received many kind comments on the service, as did other family members. I'll leave it for those who attended to post their thoughts, but all in all, I believe my dear Bettie was honored in a manner befitting her.

The Last Chapter

The final two days were peaceful, and seemingly without pain. Thursday morning I began to feed her breakfast. She opened her mouth just barely enough to convince me that she would take something. I gave her a small bite, but I'm not sure she swallowed much of it...then she went to sleep. That turned out to be her last waking moment.

Whether this was a deep sleep or a coma, I don't know. It doesn't matter, does it? During the next 44 hours, she was changed and moved multiple times, with little recognition of anything.

The experts tell us that hearing is the last system to shut down. With that assurance, she "heard" the whole family express their gratitude for what she has meant to them over the years. I'm the lucky one...I got to have two nights with her in this state. So she heard a lot from me. When it was time, (3:43 am Saturday, January 2nd) she gave a deep sigh, and finished her challenge.

The Next to the Last Chapter

I fear I may have given an overly optimistic impression in my post of a week ago (Call it a Chanukkah Blessing). If so, I apologize. While what I said was true...Bettie was better. Perhaps I should have made it perfectly clear that she was only better than the previous week, not better as in all better, or in remission, or what ever other term one might use to explain a dramatic improvement.

Given the oncologists prognosis: "she has weeks" which was given just over six weeks ago, the "better" signs we saw last week did seem encouraging. After all, she was supposed to be...well, you know. In fact, in a phone conversation with the hospice nurse yesterday, she told me that Bettie would have died weeks ago, had it not been for the excellent care, love, and support she is getting here at home with family. She had especially high praise for our son Rick, who simply cannot do too much in his care of "Mom".

But the primary purpose of the nurse's call, was not about Bettie but about me. She wanted to make sure I understood how things were. I told her that I realized what is happening and that, baring a miracle, I expect Bettie probably won't make it through January. "That would be really good...if she could make it to January second or third" she said. "But I think that is pretty optimistic". That's when she told me that, but for the loving home care, she would not have made it this far.

As you can imagine, it was another one of those moments you don't forget, like The Day it Happened, or the call on the bus, or the oncologists prognosis. Maybe I have been in denial, at least about how much time we have, if not about the ultimate end. Well, as I said last week: "Unable to see the future as we are, we just take each day..." Since this is my first time at this, I"m in no position to judge the accuracy of the nurse's opinion. However, prudence suggests some more detailed planning is in order.

And so, dear readers, we seem to be approaching the end of Bettie's Challenge. How I wish it wasn't so. I suppose I could go back to daily or even twice daily posts, as I did in the beginning. I could describe each step down into this valley..but there is no honor nor dignity in that. Baring something dramatic, the next post will be titled: "The Last Chapter", and you know what that will say. It will have a version number after the title. I will update that post with details, as I know them, that those of you wishing to honor Bettie at a memorial service will need.

I'm doing OK. Bettie and I are surrounded and supported by loving family and friends...and that's just the support we can see...there's more. Thank you all for taking a moment here and there out of your busy lives to catch up on Bettie's latest status here. You have been doing that for these nearly six months and it means an awful lot to know that you are there...really.

On Saying 'Goodbye' 2

If you have been following this blog for some time, you may remember the post from August 27th titled "On Saying 'Goodbye' ". All of what I said there applies today...except this time, I am so very sorry to say, it is becoming a reality.

We had our visit with the oncologist this morning and he gave a long name to the type of lymphoma Bettie has. I don't remember the name...just the prognosis: "She has weeks. She is already in late stage 3 (of 4 stages) of a very aggresive type," Dr. Keech told us. "We'll make her comfortable and get hospice care to give you a hand."

It was the same feeling I had on Friday when Dr. Stephan sort of pre-conditioned me to this possibility with the news that it was lymphoma, but of unknown (at the time) type. Pre-conditioned or not, it is still a feeling like no other.

I've told our children. Dr. Keech gave Bettie the news. "This is what I'm paid for", he told me, so I let him go ahead. She took it calmly. I'm not sure she fully 'got it' at the time. But we've talked since, and we're both OK.

As I was bringing Bettie into the house, at noon, I was thinking "this may be the last time she ever rides in the car, the last time up the steps", etc., etc. I quickly realized that I could drive myself nuts with the sad thoughts. There's just no point in that. So, if you see me or talk to me, I'm not going to be someone you have to tiptoe around. I know I'm supported. Just treat me normal, and I'll try to be upbeat. After all, I've had 50 years with Bettie. Hard to top that!

Results of the Biopsy

I'm writing this post today because Dick is unable to while he is traveling.
-- Steve Aitkins

It's Friday and Dr. Stephan called Dad today with the results of the biopsy. Dad got the call when he was on his way to Canada for the chorus competition. Luckily he wasn't driving.

The biopsy tests showed Mom has Lymphoma.

So there it is in black and white. I don't like writing nor reading those words.

For me, now several hours later, it's a lot heavier to read those words than it was to hear them when my sister Kim called me to relay the news between choking back her tears late this afternoon, "Are you sitting down? ..."

I guess I didn't really know what to think of that verdict. Is it a death sentence? Does it mean more pain to come? Or would Mom soon be out of the pain that she's been in for the last few months after coming home from the hospital?

There are several different types of Lymphoma; with some types a person can live for many years; others are more aggressive and even a strong person doesn't stand a chance. Mom's body has weakened considerably. She's lost a lot of weight because of her pain lately and from not consuming enough calories. So quite honestly we don't know if she is good condition -- at 95 pounds -- to fight this thing that has already began its harsh effects on her body. We love her and we certainly do not want to lose her, but we do not like seeing her in constant pain.

She is a fighter though and we proudly watched her rally with everything she had to fight back in the first weeks after her stroke. So she could have few rounds of fight in her.

Between you and me, I just gotta wonder: with all the exams and tests and all the time with several different doctors, and in and out of the hospital after complaints of localized pain, why didn't any of the doctors catch this earlier? How many doctors confuse the affects of Lymphoma with Depression? All Mom's doctors and nurses were outstanding and some of the nicest and most professional people I've ever met. I'm sorry but with that said, I just gotta wonder how this was mis-diagnosed or just plain missed for so long.

I've seen Dad play this whole scenario through many times, thinking out loud, "What if ..." And I know he's discussed the worst possible outcomes with Mom. But it's one thing to talk about it hypothetically and another to face reality. Because after all, those things happen to other people but not your wife, your mom, your sister or another loved one. Right?

Apparently not.

Dad said to me tonight, on the phone from Vancouver, Canada, "When this happens to you there's nothing else like it. You can't know how it feels until it happens to you."

I know what he means.

For me, I was caught off guard a second time today and unsure how to react or feel just yet. I mean I did feel horrible, that we were closer to losing my Mom. But no. It can't be.

I know when Veronica, my sister-in-law, called me on the morning of June 23rd and told me that Mom was taken to the hospital after an apparent stroke, I thought, "Apparent stroke. But not a real stroke. No. This doesn't happen to my Mom. She'll be OK. She'll be home in a few hours and joking about this whole episode."

I was just up in Seattle after all (I live in San Francisco, a two-hour plane ride away) just five weeks earlier for my parents' 50th anniversary celebration and she seemed fine ... well she was looking a little weak and not altogether herself. But she can't have a stroke. She's my mom.

And now I'm supposed to believe she can't speak or move her legs? No. Come on."

No. This happens to other people.

Finally it started to settle in and become real after several more status calls from her hospital south of Seattle.

"Wow. I guess it is real," I thought to myself. "I better get to Seattle before her condition gets any worse." But even then I thought I was in control while making preparations, packing, making flight reservations. But when I called my girlfriend Christine to ask her if she could take me to the airport I choked on those words, "My mom's had a stroke." And I had to try three times to get them out.

These things happen to other people until they happen to you.

And they do. Believe me.

Tonight I was reminding Christine to tell her mom (and dad) the things she really wants to share with them NOW; say the things that she really feels about her own mom before it's too late.

OK, next steps:
Dad is rushing back from Canada in the morning to be with mom and the rest of the family. He'll tell Mom about the cancer when he gets back, assuming she has not read it on everyone's faces by then already.

On Monday morning Mom and Dad go back to Dr. Schumer to get more specifics on the biopsy and hopefully find out exactly what type and the severity of the Lymphoma mom has been dealing with and how to move forward.

More next steps:
As Dad suggested in his post titled "On Saying Goodbye" ... excuse me for the sappiness of this, but it is sincere: May I also suggest you to tell someone close to you that you love them today, and maybe a couple reasons why.

I love my mom ... for reasons too numerous to list here.

On Saying 'Goodbye'

No, no, she didn't die ... so calm down.

As described in Tuesday's post (Maybe We'll Glow in the Dark), Bettie had a gall bladder drain (a small plastic tube) removed after nearly six weeks being in place in her abdomen.

I expected her to immediately feel much better. Instead, by the time we got home from two more appointments that day, she was looking pretty grim. It was literally all she could do to make it up the steps to our bedroom where she collapsed on the bed, barely able to move for the rest of the day. I found it very difficult to determine if the issue was pain or exhaustion. It was probably a fair amount of both.

The doctors had said we would have to watch her closely for the next day or two, and I could see why. For me, it was an evening of hovering. While attending to her that closely, I realized that I could be watching the lights slowly going out. I didn't seriously believe she was dying, but on the other hand watching people die is not something I'm very familiar with.

Just to be sure, I took her vital signs and called for Dr. Stephan, who interrupted his evening to return my call. From what I told him, he reassured me that she should just rest ... "but keep watching." You can bet that I did.

It was during that time, sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning in close, that I began to tell her what a good wife she has been and how well she had treated me these past 50 years. I told her that I wanted her to keep doing that for a long time ... but if she needed to go now, that I -- while it was not an easy thing for me to get out -- I guess I gave her permission to move on ... to eternity.

I can't remember every detail of the conversation, (and it was that: a conversation. She clearly understood and gave me feedback) but I probably should keep that privately between us anyway.

The reason I mention this is because I look back on those moments as very special. Moments that I'll be glad I spent, if she does precede me, no matter how far in the future that may be.

So I'm thinking: "I wonder if this is something every couple should do?" Since we can't know how much time the beloved people in our lives will be, well, in our lives, wouldn't it be a good idea to tell them occasionally, just what they mean to us? I mean the kind of stuff you'd say if you really were saying goodbye for keeps.

Yes, it could be kind of maudlin, but it doesn't necessarily have to be. For me -- and I'm pretty sure for Bettie -- it was a positive time. I'll grant you it might be difficult, but not as difficult as having the same "conversation", in a cold lonely cemetery, on some dreary sad day in the unknown future, hunched over a fresh tombstone.

Note - For the very courageous among the readership of this blog:
Should you find some merit is this suggestion and actually follow through, we would love to have you post a comment on your experience. We know your words will help others. Not on the personal details of what was said, but on your experience with it and how you felt about it. Thanks!

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