"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.