Navigating This blog

A Little History

This blog is a love story...with a sad ending. The blog began in June of 2009 when its namesake, Bettie Aitkins, suffered a severe stroke. It effectively ended in January of 2010 with her death from lymphoma. For the following two months, a few posts were added, recounting lessons learned and a little about the beginnings of "moving on" by the author, Bettie's husband Dick.

By March of 2010, the blog had served its purpose and regular posting of articles came to an end, though the blog has remained live. A year later, Dick began a new blog about coping with life alone, grieving, seeking a new identity and a new companion. That blog (Dick's Challenge) was active from March of 2011 to May of 2014, but its usefulness has run its course and it has been closed. Dick remarried three years after Bettie's passing.

Chronological Order
Blogs are typically being added to by their authors with some regularity. Thus, it is most convenient for the readership to have the most recent posting on top (up front if you prefer). Since new content is no longer being added to this blog, it is necessary to navigate backward in time to see the blog posts in chronological order, as the story unfolded. There are two ways to do this:

1. At the top of the column to the right you see a link titled: "Betties Challenge Book". Click on the link just under that title: "Download & Read all Blog posts in chronological order (pdf)" to open a pdf document containing all 110 posts, arranged in chronological order and with a dynamic table of contents, making it easy to find any post. You can print any or all of that document using the Acrobat Reader print functions. If you save the pdf file locally, you can access it without relying on Internet availability. 
2. The second entry in the column to the right is the "Blog Archive". Under that title, click the triangular arrows to open the year (The blog began in June, 2009) and then the month. With the month open, you will see the posts arranged in chronological order and you can click on the individual posts to read them.

Medical Links of Interest

Further down the column to the right you'll find a heading: "Medical Links of Interest". Here I've included sources of additional information you may find helpful in your own challenge, should you suddenly find yourself overwhelmed, as I was. Some of these I came upon as I searched for help and others were offered to me by their authors, as they saw a potential for helping people in need. Of course all content of other sites is the responsibility of those authors/sponsors. Links here are intended to be helpful and don't constitute endorsement.

Comments

You may post a public comment on the blog by clicking the "Comments" link at the bottom of this (or any) page. If you would like to communicate directly with the author, use this address: raitkins@gmail.com

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.

Throwaway Moments

In the previous post, I said there would be just one more and it would be about me and moving on...I lied. I don't think a whole day had gone by after I posted "Lessons from Bettie's Challenge" before I realized that there was one more bullet point that I wanted to add to the list of "...things that I would do differently if I had the chance." So I'm going to add that here...then we can talk about "moving on", whatever that means. (Oh, and by the way...that topic will take several posts all by itself.)

Good marriages are comfortable. Bettie and I had a good marriage. To experience your mate's death is to realize the enormous contrast between comfortable and uncomfortable.

But I'd like to suggest here that the contrast that counts isn't between comfortable and uncomfortable, but between comfortable and fabulous (or you can insert your favorite superlative, descriptive of a marriage that is way above simply "comfortable"). Now I don't want to suggest that Bettie and I didn't have any "fabulous" in ours...we did. Just not enough.

Just being in one another's presence is comfortable. Having understanding pass between the two of you without a word being spoken is priceless, as the commercial says. And looking back over a long marriage, you can see a whole lot of that unspoken, comfortable, togetherness:

• I'm sitting on the family room couch, across from the kitchen, reading the paper, and she is right there in the kitchen;
• I'm working in the yard, near the driveway and she slowly drives by and smiles, off to shopping;
• I'm in the office, preoccupied with something on the computer and she passes by the door;

Our days were filled with these throwaway moments. Nothing was said, nothing needed to be. We were together...we always would be. It was sweet.

Do you have any idea what I would give now to have just one of those moments back? I can tell you I wouldn't throw it away. Now I'm like a man in a desert, dying of thirst and thinking of all the times I ran water down the drain, waiting for a cold drink.

If you think about it, you realize that an awful lot of our lives are these simple, routine, comfortable, throwaway moments, just strung together. And it pretty much has to be that way doesn't it? If we tried to make every moment "special", no moment would be and the word would lose its meaning.

I don't know what the proper ratio between throwaway and special moments is, but I know I didn't get it right with Bettie. If she were to walk past the office door now as I sit here, preoccupied with this drivel on the computer, I can guarantee the moment would not be thrown away. I would get up, go to her, take her by the shoulders, look into her eyes and say: "Honey, do you have any idea how very special you are to me? Probably not. Well it is a lot!" I'd give her a squeeze or a peck on the lips and send her back on her mission. Total elapsed time: probably about 30 seconds.

What is the ideal ratio? One of those moments a day? Two? Several? If I'm given the chance with another...well that's for a future post. But lets just say, If I had it to do over again, I would recycle a considerable number of those thrown away moments, into something much more memorable.

Lessons from Bettie's Challenge

After posting "The Wedding Gift" I was thinking: "Gee, I could go on a long time telling stories about Bettie and me". Sorry...no, I can't. Not now anyway. I think we're getting close to the end of the road here. Readership is way down to just a handful each day...five to seven of you die-hard fans. Ah ha, you didn't know I was watching, did you? Yep, every day I get a report of how many readers there were, how many new, how many unique visits, that kind of stuff. Makes you wonder what else I know, doesn't it?

C'mon, lighten up...it is all anonymous. I just know the numbers, not the "who" of them.

The last time I titled a post "The Next to the Last Chapter" it turned out to be six posts ago, so what do I know? Anyway, I'm planning to put up something about "moving on" after this one, and that will probably be it.

For now, I'd like to perhaps ramble a bit here about things I've learned through this challenge, in no particular order. You may remember in the beginning (About This Blog) that I said this may be therapeutic for me and in (Why Me, Why Not) I said: "The real tragedy would be to travel the entire road, whatever it turns out to be, and not scatter some bread crumbs along the way for the next person who might venture into this wilderness."

Actually, both of those things have happened. Not only did I find it therapeutic, I actually learned I could write stuff, other than technical (which I do for a living) and quite enjoy myself in the process.

As far as helping others, there is still a link on Dr. Aaron Heide's web site to this blog, in hopes of helping other stroke victims. Just the other day, a fellow who works on my daughter Kim's team at Comcast called me just to talk ... it seems his wife is dying of cancer.

For you people of faith, Romans 8:28 comes to mind in all of this, doesn't it? I've seen enough examples to realize that my family's experience, and my writing about it here, is merely a small but never-the-less important piece of a giant puzzle. It's a humbling realization.

Another "lesson" is one I brought out in Where Else but America. The outpouring of love and support one receives in times like these is something you simply have to experience to truly understand. I suppose a cynical person could say, "Where has this been all my life", and maybe they'd have a minor point.

But busy lives or not, when you're hurting, people in our society respond like you wouldn't believe. I have a basket full of cards with the sweetest, most sincere and touching sentiments, many from people I hardly know.

When the entire staff of a busy medical clinic takes time to write personal messages, you know you're supported. (Two clinics did that.) The lesson is this: There is a big reservoir that will be ready for you, should you need it, and you are part of everyone else's reservoir. We are blessed to live in a society with values like ours. Americans don't go through this kind of stuff alone.

Speaking of clinics, let me speak a little of the professional care we received though our "challenge". For many years, Bettie and I have been more into the natural as opposed to the pharmaceutical approach to health.

We would be more likely to seek an "alternative" solution than the "traditional" one in most cases. With this situation, my 911 call on that fateful Tuesday morning in June, plunged us directly into the middle of traditional medical care. It was the best, and only, option available. Through the ensuing months I have come to have a deep appreciation and respect for the professional people who have dedicated their lives to careers in this field.

It grieves me to hear high public officials imply that the health care professions are filled with greedy doctors, merciless insurance people, and care facilities that routinely turn sick and dying people into the streets. If American health care is broken, somehow I completely missed it. I saw people working unbelievable hours providing loving care because they wanted to be in a helping profession.

In numerous previous posts I have singled out many of them. When your life is on the line, who do you want looking out for you, a politician or a medical professional? Now there's a no-brainer for you.

Now for some things that I would do differently if I had the chance.

• This first one I mentioned early on in the post "I'm Watching My Phraseology". The last seven months I have proven to myself that it is possible to live with a person and find absolutely nothing to criticize, condemn, or complain about...nothing, ever. As I said, it is just a choice and I wish I had made it, oh, 50 years ago or so. Things would have been even better.
• If you or a loved one are diagnosed with a condition that elevates your risk for stroke, take it very seriously. If a blood thinner is recommended, take it while you are looking for a more natural alternative, if that's what you want. I know of no side-effect that is anywhere near as bad as a stroke. We don't know if Bettie's stroke was from atrial fibrillation (which we knew she had) or lymphoma (which we didn't). But by the time she finally found a cardiologist she liked and got on a blood thinner, her stroke was 24 hours away.
• If you are a "natural and organic" kind of person with your dietary regime, may I suggest that you extend that same concept to other areas of your life. Now that I've learned a little about lymphoma (and this is true of many cancers I'm sure) I have a strong suspicion that a major contributor to this killer disease was toxic cleaners.
  
  Bettie, as many of you have surmised, waged an epic war with dirt all her life. Mrs. Clean, that was her. Every Friday the house smelled of pine oil as she worked her magic with mop, sponge, (often leaky) rubber gloves, and the famous bottle with a tree in its name. Read the label. It is highly toxic, as is much of our society. It behooves you to watch more than just what you eat. From now on, if I can't use it in my salad dressing, I'm not using it on my floor.
• Say it now. If there is any positive thing at all that I can say about Bettie's Challenge it would be that at least it gave us time to tell her what we wanted to. Your challenge may not afford you the same opportunity. In fact, Bettie didn't have the same benefit ... she could never say what she really wanted. We knew it was there, but ... well, it was sad to watch.
• Do it now. Procrastination may make the moment easier but it does nothing to ease the pain of "if only I'd done...". Everyone has their mental "bucket list", but if you are in a relationship, the list that really should matter to you is your mate's. Do you know what is on their list? If not, find out and start helping them check off the items. Don't wait until ... well, you know.
• This last mulligan I'd like to take should be of interest to married men. I apologize if it sounds sexist, but it was true in my relationship, and Bettie would approve ... No, she would applaud me mentioning it: I married a Stradivarius. I kept it polished, dust free, and in tune. It had a protective case and never got scratched. Every now and then, I would actually play it. Mostly simple stuff like Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Then I'd put it away and for too long, forget how absolutely beautiful even a simple tune sounded. I should have been playing every day.
  
  Challenging myself to make ever more beautiful melodies; eventually even mastering the very difficult passages. It was awesome to be in possession of such an incredible instrument, but the lost melodies haunt me as I consider what more there could have been. Something over 500 of these masterpieces are known to exist. Perhaps there is one in your kitchen right now.

In looking back over this post, I find four references to previous posts. This is a giveaway that redundancy is setting in. Time to give it a rest. Before I do though, there will be one more post, in two to three weeks. In that one, I will answer the question, as best I can, that I get virtually every day: "So Dick, how are you doing."

I don't want this to become "Dick's Challenge", but I know many of you are, with good reason, concerned for me. I want to tell you about what I'm doing to move on. What has changed, what stays the same. That kind of stuff. It is a story that won't be finished for a long time, but it has begun and inquiring minds want to know, as the saying goes. So check back from time to time ... and remember, I'm watching.

The Wedding Gift

The day of Bettie's memorial service, the family was gathered in a private reception room, off the foyer of Grace Community Church. A few days earlier, I had asked my sons Steve and Jim if they would be willing to present a brief story or memory of Mom during a time of sharing in the service. Now, in turn, I asked them each if they had something prepared. They each assured me that they were ready. I told everyone that I too, had a story but that I didn't know if I would be able to tell it.

Since we had arrived quite early, there was time for me to tell my story to the gathered family, as a sort of "trial run". My apprehension was allayed as I got into it. "Ah, good", I said to myself, "it looks like I can get through this without choking up." I even had a prop, sort of a show and tell.

I had asked Art Palecek, the Associate Pastor to lead the sharing time and gave him the names of a few people I had asked to be prepared, Steve and Jim among them. He was to conclude with me. I would tell my little story and then introduce my chorus for the closing songs.

However, by the time the microphone was in my hand, I realized that we were running a little long and I much preferred "leaving them wanting more", as they say, rather than less. I didn't tell the story...so here it is:

On our wedding day, beside my dashing fly-boy good looks :) , blue uniform with wings and gold stripes, I gave my bride a real gift: a gold charm bracelet. It has interlocking links with four pearls interspersed along its length. There were four heart-shaped charms adorning it on that happy occasion, each one with an inscription: "We met, May 16, 1958"; "First date, July 10, 1958"; "Engaged, October 22, 1958"; "Wedding Day, May 16, 1959". (I soon gathered that she rather liked it.)

Over the years, it spent most of its life in the jewelery drawer, but put in an occasional appearance at anniversaries and other special occasions. Of course charms were added for each of our children's birthdates, and later for grand-children. At 25 years, a silver heart appeared.

A few weeks before our 50th, I rummaged through the lesser items in the drawer, finally finding the bracelet in its own special box. I left the box, but removed the bracelet for its periodic trek to the jeweler for its (now we know) final charm: "May 16, 2009: Fifty Years of True Love".

With our anniversary party scheduled for Sunday the 17th, I made reservations for a view table at Palisade Restaurant on the water in Seattle for Saturday evening, the exact time we were married. I thought about just letting her wear the bracelet and then pointing out the new charm during dinner. This would of course assume that she would remember to wear the bracelet and that she would not notice the new charm on her own. Rather than risk it, I simply put the bracelet, box and all, in my pocket while she was doing her hair. She didn't seem to miss it, so I was home free.

At Palisade, I managed a hushed conspiracy with the maitre'd before being shown to our table. Soon our bright young waiter appeared with the customary flair.

At that point I exclaimed to Bettie "Oh Honey, look, we forgot your bracelet. Your charm bracelet."

She started to mumble something like "It wasn't there ... " but didn't get it out before I interrupted.

I turned to the waiter and said: "We forgot my wife's special occasion bracelet... I don't suppose you have something like, oh I don't know, a house bracelet or something?"

"Why yes sir. Actually we do." and with that he pulled her bracelet box from his apron and presented it to Bettie.

She was delighted, and pleasantly "surprised".

I thought we -- me and our waiter -- had really pulled off a great little show with a surprise ending.

I put 'surprised' in quotes, because I later asked her if it actually was a surprise. "Not exactly" she tactfully broke it to me.

"You may not remember, but a couple of weeks ago I forgot to put a spoon in your lunch." (On days I go into the office, I would leave before she was awake, so she fixed my lunch the evening before).

She continued: "So rather than go back down to the kitchen, and because you were already asleep, I just put a note in your pocket to remind you to put a spoon in your lunch."

I shook my head: "And that just happened to be the day that I had put your bracelet in that same pocket to take to the jeweler?"

"The very same," she grinned. "But it's OK, this was fun, and it will make a great story."

Indeed.

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.

Not "The Last Chapter"

I guess I sort of painted myself into a corner by naming the previous two posts "The Last Chapter", although I did say I would post a prologue. Well, I've had numerous requests concerning the blog...but I'm going to continue anyway. (That was supposed to be funny.)

Seriously, I have had a number of readers suggest that possibly some of the most helpful stuff may lie in the future as I move toward the light that I know is out there somewhere. So you can expect the posts to continue for a time. At some point of course, this could become too much about me and would no longer serve to honor its namesake. I'll try not to let that happen.

Before ending this brief post, I'd like to point out an addition that Steve (my editor) and I have added to the blog. If you look just to the right of the post title you'll see a link called:

Bettie's Challenge book

Download & Read all Blog posts (PDF) in chronological order

I've taken all the posts from the Introduction to The Last Chapter and arranged them in chronological order, with a bookmarked table of contents. You can view it in your browser by simply clicking the link. If you want to download it to read in Adobe Reader, print it, share it, or whatever, click the link, then click the "File" menu item and choose "Save As".

Also, we've posted a pdf version of the "program" from the memorial.

The Last Chapter, continued: "Arrangements"

"Arrangements", as they call them, have begun but they cannot be completed until the business week begins on Monday. Burial will be attended by just family, followed (hopefully on the same day) by a memorial service. That service will be at Grace Community Church. (Click the link for a map.) Although we do not attend there, they have wonderful facilities and staff, and it is in our home city of Auburn. I'll add details to this post when I have them. Look for an Update section in the post.

As you can imagine, I'm a little numb right now...not the time for thoughts and such. (There will be time for a prologue post later, so I guess this really isn't the last chapter). Before I close though, let me thank you for the supportive words, thoughts, and prayers that so many of you readers have sent our way these last few months. As I've said more than once, this is not something anyone should try alone. Though I'm lonely, I know for sure I am not alone.

-------------------- Update --------------------

Bettie's memorial service will be at Grace Community Church, on Friday, January 8th, at 3:00 p.m. (See the link above for a map.) A reception will immediately follow the service in an adjacent room, and will include a pot-luck meal. If you are so inclined, you could bring a cold dish such as a salad, cold-cuts, bread, cheese, or a desert.

There will be an opportunity for a few brief stories and memories of Bettie to add to the celebration of a life well-lived. We'll conclude with a couple of songs by my dear brothers in the Northwest Sound Men's Chorus that you won't want to miss. Hint: bring tissue.

If you are able, it would be such an honor to see you there

You can enter the parking lot for Grace Community Church, directly from Auburn Way S. Enter the church via the entrance on that (the west) side of the building. Once inside, the chapel will be to your left. If you have brought food, someone will take it from you in the foyer and deliver it to the Fireside Room for the reception. That room is straight ahead through the foyer.

Bettie's obituary appeared in both The Seattle Times and The Bellingham Herald today.

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.

Call it a Chanukkah Blessing

Yesterday evening, Dr. Schumer (who is Jewish) made a house call here, on his way home, presumably, to celebrate Chanukkah. Answering the door, I greeted him and he responded with "How's Bettie?".

"Better," I said..."the last few days she seems to be better".

In the bedroom, he found Bettie in bed, but fully dressed. (Earlier we had her up, sitting in a chair and later had carried her downstairs to be with the family. She was still dressed from that adventure.) I told the doctor that the last couple of weeks (primarily at the instigation of our son Rick who I've hired to be her primary care-giver because he worked for several years as a nursing assistant at UW Medical Center) we have taken a different approach to her activity level. This is what Rick had said to me in a message about two and a half weeks ago:

"I have A LOT of experience with people in Mom's condition. Older ones ALWAYS wanted to sleep ALL the time, but we always got them up during the day. Just like with them, she moans, groans and makes grimacing faces with every exertion, and then for a little while longer, but then is OK. (Just like when we go running, work out & lift weights, it hurts and we made ugly faces & moan.) In the same way, getting Mom up for exercise is definitely good for many reasons, one of which is it reduces the requirement for the very unhealthy pain medication. Visit any hospital or care facility. You'll see that they try to get patients out of bed for part of every day.

"Among the reasons for getting her up, going outside, staying awake a good amount, and trying to walk as much as possible during the day, are: it helps her mind, her appetite, helps stabilize her muscles and reduce discomfort and pain, diminish her restlessness, and helps her to relax, rest, and sleep much better at night."

The doctor took one look and said: "She is better. Healing happens," he says "and it's almost never what doctors do. But I see it occasionally. Not often...but it happens." I told him that it had been over a week since we gave her any Oxycodone for pain and that her 3-day pain patch was two days past due and she didn't seem to need it. Dr. Schumer said he would tell the hospice people that she could be off her pain meds. "You'll have to cut them some slack here", he said "they have this expectation of how things should go...and this is not something they would expect to see."

Bettie smiled at him and said a little something, though we're not sure what it was, I imagine it was something like: "Hey Doc, check me out."

The doctor's calls are primarily a much-appreciated professional courtesy. He doesn't have to do this and I haven't seen a bill. He just sees it as the right thing to do...and he gladly does it. He left with a cheery "Happy Chanukkah", promising to bring Bettie a dreidel on his next visit in two weeks.

It was the doctor who used the word "healing". If this is healing in the miraculous sense, then it is the "from that very hour" (Matt 15:28) variety, as opposed to the more dramatic "take up thy bed, and walk" (John 5:8) example.

What ever it is, Bettie is:

• Awake more each day;
• Not taking pain medication;
• Eating better (though chewing is a major issue, so we puree her food);
• Sleeping better;
• Attempting to talk more, though still unable to find the correct words;
• And just generally perkier than she was two weeks ago.

Unable to see the future as we are, we just take each day and are thankful for whatever blessings we receive. Thank you to Rick and to Dr. Schumer. Happy Chanukkah indeed.

More, Since You Asked...

As Garrison Keillor would say, "It's been a quiet week..." We have made, and continue to make, our petitions to her creator...so now we wait. Meanwhile, Bettie is pretty much unchanged from last week's post.

It had been quite a while since we tried any flash card reading like we did when therapy was the order of the day. So yesterday and again today I asked her to tell me what the word was on each of about 20 flash cards the speech therapist had left with us. She used to get between 5 and 15 of them correct. Now her score is zero. It may be the pain medication making it even more difficult to find the right word, I don't know. Anyway, I don't think I'll be trying that anymore.

Speaking of pain, that is a real difficult thing to deal with when the patient cannot verbalize with any predictable accuracy, just what she's feeling. It's kind of a loose, loose situation: You either have pain with alertness or comfort with fuzziness. I'm choosing comfort for her, but there is less interaction as a result. We still have our close moments, but I'm glad I've told her all I really feel I need to. I'm not going to wish later that I had said something more. At least that is one good thing that this protracted decline has given us: time to say goodbye.

Another difficult thing to deal with is guilt...or if not guilt then something close to it. For example, after ending the previous paragraph with "goodbye" I'm wondering: "Have I given up on faith? How does that look to our many friends who are praying, and here I am saying goodbye?" Then there's the desire to have her suffering come to and end, but what does that really mean I'm desiring? That kind of stuff goes through my mind all the time. However, I'm sure these issues are very typical of all hospice caregivers, and that's some consolation.

Bettie has had a number of visitors the past week, and though often not verbally responsive, she seems to enjoy most of them. I say most, because some old and dear friends bring a tearful response from her. I'm not sure why, but it passes and the sun comes out again.

One final note: The other day we received a card from the Auburn Regional Medical Center, Acute Rehab Unit. It was signed by eighteen members of the staff there. Not just signed actually...they each wrote a brief note of love, support and prayer for Bettie. It seems she made quite an impression during the month of July in which she was a resident there. (See the 40 posts for the month of July, for more details.) The card quite undid both of us as I read it to her. Thank you guys so much. This trial is not the kind of thing you want to attempt alone, and we surely are not alone!

Since You Asked...

Here are some of the details that people have been asking about.

Bettie's Condition:

• She is still able to get up, and, with assistance (and her walker), make her way to the bathroom and back.
• Her communication is pretty much unchanged, that is, she seems to understand most or all of what is said to her and can usually make appropriate simple responses. She almost never expresses her desires or comments with the right words, so it is often a guessing game to determine her intent.
• She is in her own bed, other than bathroom visits, all the time. We can get a hospital bed from the hospice care people, but have not found the need to, so far. At this point, it seems doubtful she will be going anywhere else, even downstairs to the family room.
• Her pain is managed by a 3-day patch of Fentanyl, plus Oxycodone when needed. All her pain seems to be abdominal, in the area where the biopsy was performed two weeks ago.
• She has a diminishing appetite, but is able to eat something at each meal time. We try to give her what ever she might enjoy, often breaking her natural-and-organic-only rules, from before this happened. Her weight a week ago was 96.6 lbs, up slightly from a couple of weeks before. (Before the stroke, June 23rd, she was 123 lbs.)
• She sleeps well...maybe too well. Pain medication make one sleepy, so this it to be expected.
• She does pretty well with visitors. With hospice care people in several times a week, family, and friends, she has had a fair number of callers. She is able to engage everyone with at least a weak "Hi", though she may fall asleep at some point in a visit.
• Occasionally she will sit up a little so as to view a recent addition to our bedroom, a large plasma television. She can enjoy a movie or favorite show, sometimes even staying awake to the end. Most of the time it displays a continuous aquarium scene that is quite soothing, with soft background music.
• And, yes, she can still make funny faces...on occasion. I love that.

How am I doing:

• As mentioned earlier, this is a shocking change in my life. In the months after the stroke but before the diagnosis, there was time to seriously consider the things that could come next, but it was still traumatic to actually experience it. Nevertheless, this is not new ground I'm breaking here. This kind of thing happens to people all the time. I imagine all of you blog readers have had to deal with equally sad situations. I don't know...we just do it, don't we? All in all, I'm doing OK.
• Health wise, I just today finished all the followup visits after my two days in the hospital scare a month ago (see Oh No, Back in the Hospital). Apparently most of the stroke-like symptoms I exhibited came from some slight interference in my neck where a little arthritis has narrowed the clearance for the spinal cord. Heart is in great shape, and nothing much to be concerned with otherwise. Just don't play tackle football or run with scissors...that kind of stuff.

Am I still working, and singing:

• My employer, iShip Inc., as been particularily wonderful during this time. I am able to spend all the time I need and want with Bettie. I do still go into the office as I'm able and I can work from home for most of the things I do too. There is more detail about my work in the post from June 30th, titled And Now, a Word From Our Sponsor.
• Last Wednesday was the day we saw the oncologist. It did not seem appropriate to go singing that evening, though it was regular chorus rehersal night. Donny, our director, made a brief announcement to the chorus about my situation. This week, I'll return. Singing helps...so does the brotherly fellowship and support I get there.

Do I have enough help:

• I was telling the hospice nurse yesterday: "We're probably less in need of help that your average clients". Beside the live in family (My son Tim, Veronica, his wife, and Jordan and Jonny their teenage children) I now have my son Rick (a former CNA) as a full-time helper. Just last night, my son (and co-editor) Steve flew in from San Francisco for some time with "Mom". So we have a house full.
• And speaking of hospice home care, they really provide an amazing amount of help. Besides equipment of all kinds, they have nurses, massage therapists, bathing assistance, housekeeping help, spiritual counseling, and more. Next time they are here, I'll ask about leaf raking. (I call this place "Five Oaks" for a reason.) Oh, never mind, that's Jonny's job.

Can you visit:

• Yes, you can. At a minimum, call a hour or so ahead of time...a day before might be even better. (253 854-5725). Even with that, it is possible you may have to wait downstairs for a hospice care person to finish a visit.

Where Else but America?

While I've traveled the world a fair amount and visited other cultures, I have only lived in America. Therefore, my opinion is decidedly non-objective...but for my money, this is the place to endure a trial, if that is what fate brings you. I am so blessed to live among the most generous, loving, and supportive people on the planet. Where do I start, to acknowledge the overflow that has engulfed me?

• The pastor where I attend services each week called the other day. What's so special about that? He either stayed up very late at night or got up in the wee hours to do it...he's in Israel, leading a tour. That was very special.
• Speaking of churches, people from where we used to go, call, send cards, visit and bring food by.
• Not to be out done, a woman in our congregation had a florist deliver a bouquet to Bettie on Sabbath...just to make the day special. That was her third or fourth flower arrangement since August.
• My daughter Kim came down from Arlington yesterday, especially to give "Mom" a loving pedicure. She stayed today and is now giving her a manicure.
• The Hospice care team from St. Joseph hospital (Tacoma) have begun coming and are providing a basket full of services. Practically anything we need in the way of equipment, supplies, or services, they provide. And they do it with dignity and class, really.
• My brothers in Northwest Sound Men's Chorus are supporting me like you wouldn't believe. Just today I got a long, wonderful note from one of them. It said in part: "...I wish you the strength to get through these times as best you are able. I have read the recent posts on your blog. Thank you for sharing that with so many. It has helped more people than you can imagine. It’s not just been an exercise to help you get through this or to inform your close friends. It has been a ministry and I respect you so much for sharing in times like these. I am praying for you and your family. I hope you will come to chorus when you are ready and give us a chance to show you our love and support. We all love you, Dick."
• My younger brother (Grandpa Jim) and my niece (Linda) came by Saturday afternoon and had a long and supportive visit.
• Our primary care doctor (Dr. Schumer) will be making a house call this week. What kind of doctor does that anymore?
• Read the comments that have been made to recent posts and you'll see more of what I'm getting.

I could go on and on, but you get the idea. Our great country is founded on a value system that makes people like these. People that rush to aid the imperiled, bind up the wounded, and comfort the suffering. We should thank God for these values, they make us all better...and when needed, they heal us.

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 2

In my over-long post about singing, I mentioned that we will see the doctor on Monday. That was yesterday and we did see the doctor. It was a fairly routine trip to Dr. Schumer, our primary care doctor to have Bettie's weekly blood consistency test. (Being on a blood thinner requires close monitoring to keep it not too thin and not too thick, to put it in non-medical terms.)

Doctor Schumer did spend some time with me (alone) discussing where we go from here but he did not go into the specifics of Bettie's condition. That is not his specialty. He referred us to an oncologist and said they would call me later in the day to set an appointment, probably Tuesday.

When I talked later with Dr. Keech's office, we settled on Wednesday morning. So that's when I'll have some real news.

Singing with a Heavy Heart

First, a little background:

I've been a member of the Barbershop
Harmony Society for 13 years or so (from 1980 to 84 in Tacoma and from 2000 to the present in Bellevue). Barbershop harmony is a uniquely American art form...that is, it originated in the American south over a hundred years ago. Now it is international both in participants and those who simply enjoy the sound of close, four-part harmony.

I place a rather high value on my participation, in the belief that music makes our society a better place...besides, it is good clean fun, fellowship, and, when one needs it, a source of tremendous emotional support. In all these ways, it is truly a ministry.

My chorus, Northwest Sound Men's Chorus, produces two annual shows for the general public: a spring/summer show in early June, and a Holiday show in December. These help us pay the rent, our director, coaches, and other expenses that our dues don't cover. In addition to these shows, you might find us performing at local community events such as: The City of Kirkland's tree lighting ceremony, the Seattle Westlake Center holiday kick off, the Bellevue Strawberry Festival, Music in the Park in Everett, and many others.

And then, there is something else...COMPETITION! Chapters in the Barbershop Harmony Society can choose to compete among themselves for titles such as Division Champion, District Champion, and International Champion. (There are contests for both quartets and choruses.)

There is no money in this, but you would never guess it given the amount of work the members put in just to sing better than the other guys. The nice thing about the competitive part is that it raises the standards for everyone...we all get better.

If you would like to get an idea of just how good this music genre can get, here is a link to the St Charles Missouri chapter, the Ambassadors of Harmony and their performance of "76 Trombones" which won the international championship this past July. In that same competition, Northwest Sound placed 19th, highest of any chorus in our district.

Speaking of "district" we belong to the Evergreen District which is very large: Alaska, British Columbia, Alberta, Washington, Oregon, Idaho, and Western Montana. And this weekend was the annual Evergreen District Competition. In was Vancouver's turn to host it and they choose the convention center in Whistler, B.C. as the venue. Our chorus was in the competition, trying to earn the right to again represent our district at the international competition next year in Philadelphia.

So that's how I happened to be on a charter bus, 50 miles or so north of Vancouver at 2:00 Friday afternoon when I received a cell phone call from Dr. Stephan. I had given him my cell number and knew that he might call, but I really expected the call on Monday. When it came, this call was very like the call I made to Bettie the morning of the stroke (see The Day it Happened)...one of those moments I know can happen but I never really expected that it would ... at least not to me.

At first the doctor's voice sounded positive, that is he was direct, no grasping to try to find sugar coated words: "We have the results from Bettie's biopsy (a slight pause here) it is Lymphoma." If you put two words on a balance scale (like the scales of justice): "Stroke" on one side and "Lymphoma" on the other, the L word is clearly heaver. While it's true there are stroke victims who die and Lymphoma victims who fully recover, it is more often the other way around. Unfortunately for Bettie, she has both, plus she is down to 95 pounds or so, a grim picture indeed.

I thanked Dr. Stephan, though in hindsight I'm not sure why ... good manners I guess. My head was spinning. I wanted to stand up and shout "Stop the bus, I want to go home". I'm thinking: "What kind of man goes off to sing while his wife is..." But I took some time to think it through:

• The trip was already planned and the risks were considered and allowed for.
• She is in very good care with family.
• There is nothing I could do, even if I were there, until Monday when we see the doctor.
• I really do need a break from the daily stress of this, and singing is a very good stress reliever.
• In last place, but still a real consideration, is my commitment to the chorus.

So I finally made peace with myself, though I determined that I would high-tail it for home as soon as the contest was over, rather than waiting for the return charter bus on Sunday. Next, I called my daughter Kim and we cried in each others ears as I shared the news.

Seated next to me on the bus was a good buddy from the chorus, Ed Dierdorf. Naturally, he had heard me on the phone so I owed at least him an explanation. I asked him not to tell anyone, and said that I was not sure exactly what to do. He and I talked about it at some length. I knew that if I spread the news, I would be flooded with a big warm blanked of brotherly support. But...

The issue here is this: When chorus members prepare to perform (and this is especially true when the performance includes a tender love ballad, as our upcoming performance did) the emotional preparation is very important. Each guy goes to his own emotional space in preparation to deliver something from his own heart. Something that will move the audience, (and hopefully the judges too). In a tight brotherhood like Northwest Sound, when one member hurts, it affects the whole unit. So I thought there was a very real possibility that my issue could mess with the emotional preperation of the whole chorus and I didn't want to do that. Of course, on the other hand, maybe it would actually add some emotional depth, what do I know?

I thought for a long time about what to do, and who to tell, if anyone. I told Ed: "I think I'll just tell Donny" (Don Rose, our fabulous director). "He'll know whether or not to tell the others." I thought some more: "What if it messes with his preparation?" I finally decided to tell Don's wife Amy: "She'll know whether or not it would be good to tell Donny." So that's how I left it for the rest of the trip. The Roses were not on the bus so I would have to wait until much later to find and talk to Amy.

When I checked-in and got to my hotel room, I found that for a $12 fee I could get on the Internet. So I did, and soon found my way to this blog. However, try as I might, I could not edit the blog and let all of you, my faithful "Bettie Followers" in on the news. "Twelve bucks wasted" I thought.

That's when I thought of calling Steve, my son and co-editor of this blog. Of course he had heard from his sister Kim, so he knew what was going down. I asked him to put up a post (which he did later that evening Results of the Biopsy). To help him with what he might say, I talked to him at length, just so he'd get a feel for where I was with everything.

One of the things I discussed was the issue of telling the chorus. His counsel was: "Don't tell anyone. You'd only put Amy in an impossible position by having to keep a secret from her husband if she determined that Donny should not be told. That wouldn't be good, of course". (How did I raise such wise kids?) So that's what I did...er, didn't actually.

We rehearsed later that evening and again beginning at 6:00 the next morning in prep for our 10:15 a.m. stage time. Our performance was wonderful. At least we thought we were pretty good. (We placed third out of nineteen choruses.) I don't remember what I thought about during the ballad, but it wasn't Bettie. I could not have sung a note with her pretty face in my head. Sorry Honey.

After our performance I told Donny: "I have to leave now, I can't be here for the show tonight." (The top three choruses perform at the evening show). He asked me if Bettie was alright and all I could tell him was to check with Chuck Caplan, a medical doctor and a gifted baritone who sings with us. I had just told Dr. Caplan all the details that I knew and I thought he could provide the best description of the issue to anyone who asked. Besides, I can't tell anyone what is going on and keep my composure -- not yet anyway -- and I didn't have the time to tell everyone before I was to leave.

I caught the Greyhound bus at 1:30. So now I'm sitting in the Vancouver bus/train depot, with a tablet and pen, whiling away a two-hour layover before the Seattle bus leaves. I'll transcribe and post this, probably tomorrow (Sunday, Nov 1) morning.

I finally reached my sweetie's side about 11:15 p.m. She was sleeping peacefully but awakened to give me a weak smile. Monday we'll see Dr. Schumer and determine where we go from here.

But for now, this is where I need to be.