Moving On, Part 2 (of 2)

In last week's post I said I would tell you how I got "here". I now realize that is exactly what I have been doing in the previous 109 posts. This is now getting to be too much about me. Enough already!

So, sorry to say...this is it for Bettie's Challenge. Even I am saddened by the prospect of ending this relationship with what I described as "my mistress" way back last June. (See "Oh Dear, Dick has Taken a Mistress"). However, the reason my son Steve and I created this blog in the first place was this:

Posting this information here is intended to help her many concerned friends get the latest update, while saving those of us directly affected from having to field and respond to multiple inquires each day. (See "About This Blog")

That issue has now long past. As a matter of fact, I would now welcome multiple inquires each day, should you care to make them. The "rest of the story", to quote the late Paul Harvey, is worth telling...but in an appropriate time and setting, and this public blog is neither of those. Privately, one-on-one, with dear friends who have loved and supported me through this, would be fine. Especially those who have prayed for me, my family, and our recovery...you deserve to know that your prayers have been and are being answered...really.

If you have been helped, moved, inspired, or even entertained on occasion, I'm honored to have been gifted by our creator to do that. Of course the biggest honor goes to Bettie, who fought the good fight and overcame her challenge in so many inspiring ways, I'm overcome myself, just thinking of it.

In closing, here are three methods to inquire, comment, or otherwise maintain contact. Choose one that suits you:

• At the top of the list of favorite means of communication is what Bettie would have done: a personal hand-written note or card, addressed to:


Bettie's Challenge
82 NW Lopez LN
Bremerton, WA 98311
(You will receive a personal note in return)


• If you would like to personally correspond with just me. Address your message to raitkins@gmail.com and I will respond. If you would like a phone call, send me your number and a good time to make contact.


• And of course, as always, at the bottom of this (and each) post is a comments section. Click there to read other's comments or to add your own. They are public, of course, but putting your heart out there is not such a bad thing, I've survived it and you probably will too. (Even if you don't care to post a comment, you will enjoy reading the comments of others. I may add comments of my own, in fact.)

I'm eternally grateful for your many months of care, prayers, and support. Just knowing you faithful readers are there has been an enormous comfort. Thanks and blessings to you.

Moving On, Part 1

Occasionally I look back over posts I made to this blog in its first days. Being plunged into a pit of these proportions is like a novice pilot flying into a dark cloud, having had virtually no training on instrument flying. (Something I'm embarrassed to say I've done...but only once!)

Consumed with the daily coping with a new reality, it is only in hind sight that one realizes the scope of the predicament they are in. In "The First 24 Hours", I dutifully reported what was "working" and what was not. I think it was only after Bettie died, that I began to realize things that were not working in me. Things that hadn't "worked" since that fateful June day.

It seems like so long ago now, it is hard to remember what "normal" was like in early June of last year. Being in a love relationship of fifty-years, I never had occasion to think what it would be like to loose the sensations of loving and being loved in return.

Like a back-up power supply kicking in when the main source is interrupted, I switched from loving like a husband to loving like a care-giver. People do this all the time. Our nightly news is filled with stories of tragedies, each of them requiring this same instant role-changing on the part of the affected family members. It's part of being human. And it takes its toll.

It was obvious from the start of our trial that I was not going to be loved like before. What was not so obvious was that I was not going to love like before either. Care-giving love is different. It is an honor to be able to minister to someone so needy, to care for every physical need, and all of that...but it is not anything like "normal" in a marriage.

What I discovered at the end of it, was I was starved for the love and affection that Bettie simply was no longer capable of giving as she had so faithfully before her stroke. But I was equally needy in the area of giving love to someone the way I had grown accustomed to doing for all those years. These two needs: to love and to be loved had now gone unmet for many months.

Bettie and I had discussed what each would do in the event of the death of the other, some years ago. She said she probably wouldn't remarry and I said I probably would. After that, she didn't want to discuss the issue anymore. Well, who would?

In her last month, I would occasionally wonder what I was going to do, but even the thought seemed inappropriate. After she died, it didn't seem much more appropriate, not to mention all the other considerations:

• How will this look?
• How long is appropriate?
• What about the kids opinions?
• What about grieving?
• Could I even be attracted to anyone?
• I'm so old, who'd want me?

Some of the thoughts one goes through are serious, some are silly, but all are real. One of the best things I did as I fumbled about in my numbed mind, was to confide my dilemma to a good friend, a woman who knew and loved Bettie. How comforting for her to tell me, "Dick, you're vulnerable right now. Go slow. Take your time. There are thousands of women out there that would be attracted to you. Don't worry, I've got your back". OK...whatever. It is still a dilemma.

At some point after we buried Bettie I remember saying to the family, all gathered for a lunch: "There are two great understatements in the Bible: 'Death is an enemy' and 'It is not good for man to be alone'. Please comment on the second one." After some discussion, my son-in-law Mike said: "Dick, it sounds like you are asking for permission".

I gave him the charades clue for "on the nose". Yea, I guess I was. I have since concluded that grieving and "moving on", if that's what I can call what we're talking about here, don't necessarily have to be consecutive. To some extant, they can be concurrent. I don't have to finish grieving before seeking companionship. In fact, the right companion could actually help with grieving. But some of it must be done alone. Probably a lot of it. Frankly, this is complicated stuff, so don't be too quick to pass judgment.

For the sake of my kids, I wanted to be circumspect in this. As I'd been told: "You can have another wife, we can't have another mother." I sent them all a message: "Thoughts on Moving On". It is too long to repeat here, but I simply outlined a lot of these thoughts and promised to go slow and be careful. After several days with little response, I thought I'd lighten up the issue so I sent them this follow-up e-mail message:

"While not everyone has chimed in on my 'Thoughts on Moving On' e-mail, no one so far has come up with the correct response…so I'll give it to you. The correct response: 'Dad, whatever you want to do, whoever you want to do it with, and when, is just fine with us. We just ask one small favor before you move ahead, OK? Just do a Google search for 'How long after death before dating?' Please read each of the results that comes up…then go have your fun'."
At the bottom of the message I put this P.S. "When I ran that search it came up with 29,100,000 results. Assuming I could read each one in a minute and could read without sleeping, it would only take 55 years :-)"

That did lighten the issue, though it is still tender with them. Needless to say, I'm not waiting 55 years, nor am I engaged. But I am somewhere in between. Next time I'll tell you how I got here...stay tuned.

"So Dick, how are you doing?"

Little by little, the frequency of the question diminishes. People I see often are beginning to see me as, well ... just Dick. I guess that must mean that I really am "moving on". I feel like I am, and it is a welcome feeling, I can tell you.

Not that I don't appreciate the support, attention, and honor that our society pays to people who suffer loss. I do. But too much of it and a person could adopt a victim mentality that I think could actually delay recovery.

For example, I got well-intentioned advice a couple of weeks ago to attend some kind of grief counseling or support group. Being new to the "grieving process" as it is called, I looked into what was available and found a support group, meeting not far from my home. I called the moderator and was invited to attend. Though it was two weeks before I had a free Tuesday evening. A week ago Tuesday, I finally did.

I suppose there were 20 of us around a long table, each with a sad story of loss. I shared mine, and felt right at home. By the time nearly two hours had passed, though I had initially determined that I would give the group a few weeks before deciding if it was going to be a long-term relationship, I had made a personal decision: I am not coming back. Don't get me wrong, they are a lovely group of people and genuinely care about each other ... it is sweet. But most of them lost their mates anywhere from two to six years ago. Somehow that doesn't seem like recovery to me. Memories of Bettie will always be with me, but I'm not going to make a weekly appointment to be sad.

Being new to grieving, I have sought the counsel of friends who have lost mates, read material provided by those wonderful hospice people who helped us for Bettie's last two months, and read extensively on the Internet. Two points are practically universal:
1) It will get better over time;
2) Everyone goes through it in their own way.

Of course, people of faith, among whom I number myself, have even more help. Being something of a literalist, I read something like the well-known 23rd Psalm: "...Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me" and I believe it. So I'm getting plenty of comfort from a good source, thank you.

Now, for something completely different: Clean up.

I don't know exactly what motivated us, but once the undertaker had left that Saturday morning, and after the initial numbness began to wear off, there seemed to be a strong urge to clean house. My daughter Kim came down later and spent a couple of days helping me go through Bettie's clothes, jewelery, cosmetics, and such. Naturally, we selected certain things to go to each of the granddaughters, and to special friends. But for the most part it was off to consignment, the donation truck, or the trash with the great majority of it. And it wasn't just me, the whole family was cleaning up.

It wasn't that I didn't want any reminders of her. I have a lovely picture of Bettie on the dresser, with the "Wedding Gift" bracelet in front of it, and I look at it every day. I put away many of the cards and notes from her though. I'll "go through" those some other time. But for the most part, the bedroom we shared is sparse, clean, and masculine looking. My clothes are now spread out, with many of them in "her" closet as well as my own. The dresser we bought for her 50 years ago is now filled with my things and it's top is graced with a mahogany model of my favorite airplane, the "Connie", which I last flew on New Years Day, 1963.

I'm grateful to so many of you for your continued support and encouragement. But really, I'm moving on in several ways and doing better each week. I've begun a new activity for me: pickle ball with a lovely group of seniors at the Kent Commons a couple of times a week. I take long walks frequently, ice skate once a week and am feeling terrific physically.

Even my heart is healing. But that is a story (you'll love) for next time.