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.

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!

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.

News! At Last Some News

As previously related, Bettie has been having right side abdominal pain, pretty much from mid-July when they discovered an issue with her gall bladder. In the last couple of weeks it has gotten much worse...to the point where she is only up to move to the bath or down stairs from our bedroom to the wheelchair, where she can be taken to the couch in the family room. Her appetite has deteriorated and she has lost at least four pounds...down now to 98!

Needless to say, this has been a great concern to the family and to her professional treatment staff. Both doctors Schumer (our primary-care guy) and Heide (her "stroke doctor"...actually a neurologist) have provided input. One of their suggestions was a new ultra-sound exam of the gall bladder, which was performed last Friday morning.

Today, Dr. Schumer got the results of that scan and called us with the news: "I'm referring Bettie to Dr. Pettie on Friday...she needs to have her gall bladder removed." I was out when the call came so I didn't speak with Dr. Schumer, but the bottom line is she will have the surgery within the next couple of weeks.

Now it will seem kind of odd to you, for us to be celebrating the need for surgery. This is not the kind of thing one usually looks forward to...kind of in the category of rejoicing over an upcoming root canal...like, who does that? However, if you were here with us, watching her decline these last couple of weeks, you would understand. When Rick told me the news from Dr. Schumer, my heart leaped in relief...almost joy. At last, they have found something. Yes!

Though it is often hard to read Bettie's responses, I think I detected some relief on her part too, when I told her about it.

Being a person of faith, I do not consider the gall bladder a vestigial (look it up) remain from a previous branch of the human tree. Nevertheless, its designed role can be omitted with little effect on one's lifestyle. It this case, I readily accept (for her, as I have durable power of attorney) a life free of both gall bladder and related pain, as opposed to continuing with both.

Modern surgical practice allows this type of surgery to be minimally invasive, which is fortunate, given how weak and frail she is right now. (On that note, I think we have arrested the weight loss and she is eating somewhat better the last couple of days.)

But there is a good thing that will come from this extra trial of pain, coming, as it has, on top of stroke. When Bettie is free of pain, the stroke will seem to me like a relatively minor nuisance in our life together. I predict that she'll walk with little impairment, get better and better at talking, and regain some useful functionality with her right hand. She might even feel like...well who knows. But she'll be back and that is news, at last some news.

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!

Click here to add your comments and thoughts.

Getting Away with Murder

An idiom: "To escape punishment for or detection of an egregiously blameworthy act."
Informal: "To do as one pleases without ever being punished."

One of the most compelling arguments in favor of traditional marriage is the civilizing effect a woman has on a man. Being the product of 50 years of this civilizing, I can say that I am better and everything and everyone I touch is better, because I have had Bettie in my life. It's not that she isn't still in my life, but, at least for now, it is different...and I could revert, I could get away with murder (figuratively, of course).

This realization comes on slowly, creeping into my consciousness like shadows on a summer evening:

"She would probably never know if I..."

"Now is my chance to..."

"I don't think she'll ever miss..."

Some of these thoughts are benign and practical: I saved a little on our car insurance by taking her off the policy and promising to deactivate her driver's license; I moved the bedroom phone from her side of the bed to mine; I'll cancel her cell phone service soon. These are just practical little things, right? Should I tell her? Should I ask her permission? I don't know. But other thoughts feel kind of creepy to me.

Yesterday I was putting something away in an office file drawer. The drawer was pretty full, and I knew very well why: It was half full of folders she had stuffed with travel articles of places we might like to go sometime, or pictures cut from magazines showing attractively appointed rooms...or furniture...or gardens. Just dreams on paper that could be easily duplicated electronically in a few seconds with a web browser and Google.

I had a half-dozen folders emptied, bound for the recycle bin before the guilt hit me: "Getting away with murder I see," I said to myself.

I went into the Family Room, knelt down by the couch where she was lying, and told her what I was doing. We've had this conversation before...it always ended with: "No, I'll go through those things soon." This time she agreed, with a knowing look that said: "Probably not for awhile, huh?"
"Yea," I said, "...that stuff is old anyway."

It got pitched...but because I asked, I got a reduction from felony to misdemeanor. I felt better anyway.

Now I'm telling myself: "Just because you can get away with murder, doesn't mean you should. Go slow here." I don't want to throw away the irreplaceable: Bettie's civilizing influence, just so things can be the way I think they should. That would be a giant step backward.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

When this first happened, I couldn't count the number of people who expressed a desire to be of help, as this post is titled. At the time, I had no idea if I needed help and if so, what kind. I needed my wife back, that's what I needed..."Help with that if you can", I thought. Now that I've lived a little over a month with stroke in my life, I have a clearer perspective than at the first.

Our home situation is unique in that we have live-in family. Our son Tim, his wife Veronica, and their two children: Jordan, 17 and Jonny, 14 have been with us since we bought our present home, five years ago. That's a different story, but it has worked out for us quite well...and now it is a godsend.

I often would tell people: "We're like the Waltons (a 70's TV series) and I'm the grandpa." Funny thing: in the TV show, Ellen Corby, the actress who played the Grandma, had a stroke, just like Bettie's: speech impeded somewhat and right side partially paralyzed. She was off the show for a time, then came back, stroke and all. Her role on the show only lasted another couple of years, but she lived 20 more years after the stroke. Will Geer, the actor who played Grandpa, died within a year after her return to the show. (Hope we're not like the Waltons in that regard.)

I mention the home situation only to make the point that what I say here about the need for help and support is being met for me by live-in family.

But if you know of another couple where a spouse has suffered stroke, the unaffected mate needs help immediately. They want to spend every possible minute at the hospital for those first few weeks. This means home meals, lunches for work, house and yard maintenance, car servicing...all the things that take time away from being with the loved one are opportunities to be of service. If you are inclined to be of help, don't ask "Is there anything I can do?". Just pick something and say "I'm going to ...." and then do it.

Once the stroke patient is home, I don't think one person could possibly provide safe and responsible care. If there is no family or other support network, then a live-in facility is probably the only reasonable option.

If you find yourself in that situation (and you should not think "It can't happen to me") your choices for providing that level of care are: be rich or have long term care insurance. Think about it...this is not something you want to try at home...alone.

A Follow-up with Dr. Heide

If you have read this blog from the beginning, you will recognize Dr. Heide as a key player in this whole drama. I first met him via video hookup while Bettie was in the ER, the day it happened. Over the course of the last five and a half weeks, we have come to know, trust, and be thankful for this man.

Today was the Bettie's first follow-up visit after discharge. It took place at his facility, in Renton, near Valley General Hospital. It began with a new scan of Bettie's head, so that a comparison could be made with Day One. Then Bettie was weighed (104.2 lbs... down about 20 pounds from five weeks ago) and finally we saw our friend, Dr. Heide.

He showed us the scan on his computer screen, blown up to reveal startling detail (if you know what you are looking for). He pointed out that the original scan clearly (at least to him) showed the clot, right where speech and communication are processed.

Today's scan, did not show a clot there at all! Now before we get too excited, he wants to do a different kind of scan next week that will show different detail to confirm that the clot is, in fact, gone. If it is, that will considerably improve her prognosis.

Part of the doctor's routine involves asking Bettie her name. I don't think she has ever been able to answer that question for me ... but then I'm not a doctor. But for him, she says "Bettie Aitkins", like "Well duh". Seems like this happens too often to be a coincidence. Oh well.

An interesting part of the conversation with the doctor was about music. You may remember that my son Steve, suggested that we put headphones on Bettie and play her old but familiar music (See the post titled: The Sound of Music). She responded dramatically, singing along before she could speak or put other sentences together. Evidently, that idea of Steve's had not been explored by the medical community before. Dr. Heide says we are exploring new ground here and he is very interested in discovering the potential for communication with stroke patients via music.

He wants me to continue singing to, and with, Bettie. I told him I know a lot of songs, since I sing in a men's chorus (Northwest Sound). Unfortunately, I sing bass, so if Bettie starts croaking in a deep voice, blame me.

Before we left Dr. Heide's office and went out to set up the follow-on visits with his nutrition expert and others on his staff, he told me this: "After Bettie's stroke, I had a number of other patients with the same type of stroke. I have directed them to the Bettie's Challenge blog for help with dealing with the situation, and it has been very helpful. Very helpful."

I have to tell you, that gives me a big lump in the throat. We have known all through this that the Biblical promise (Rom. 8:28) that "... all things work together for good ... " is true. Dr. Heide's comment demonstrated one way that it is happening (and there are undoubtedly others as well). Very humbling.

If you are one of those refereed here by Dr. Heide because you too are traveling this road, know that you are not alone. Feel free to contact me directly if there is any way I could be of help, I'd be honored. Contact info is on the Profile page.

A final, but very important, point from the doctor. I asked him how he was coming on procuring a very expensive but promising piece of new technology that could be helpful in regenerating brain tissue. He said that, with the federal government proposing to take over the health care industry, it is currently impossible for any doctor to make a sensible business case for major equipment expenditures. Our elected officials in the executive and legislative branches of government are already having a negative effect on the medical profession, and they are only talking about what they want to do.

This blog is not about politics, but about the care of a stroke patient, my wife. My recommendation concerning the issue is this: ask your doctor what he/she thinks about the issue, then write or phone your representative and tell them your personal concerns, based on what you have learned. Would it be asking too much of your representative to insist that they read and understand the bill, at a minimum, before voting on it?

An Open Letter to Dr. Sultana

Dr. Geoffrey Sultana
Auburn Regional Medical Center
Acute Rehab Center
202 North Division St.
Auburn, WA 98001

Dear Dr. Sultana:

This note is to express my deepest gratitude for the wonderful care you and your staff of professionals provided for my wife Bettie, this past month. Though I’m grateful to have her home now, the departure from your facility was something like the bittersweet emotion of a graduation.

Of course, it was a graduation in a sense, a shared triumph of Bettie’s indomitable spirit plus the skill and dedication of your staff. You folks have helped turn a personal tragedy into a growth opportunity and headed her toward a successful recovery. A mere "Thank you" hardly seems sufficient.

Please share this note with your people and tell them how very impressed I am with them all. I hear it said that it is hard to find good help nowadays. Well, you have pulled it off in spades. Keep doing what you are doing; society needs (the people and) places like Auburn Acute Rehab.

Most sincerely,

Richard L. Aitkins

Is This a Good Sign?

Yesterday, for the first time that I have been aware of in this adventure, Bettie got upset with me. Maybe it is a good sign, I don't know. (I had brought in the shoes the physical therapist had requested, a pair of Costco's best sneakers. They do have laces, as opposed to the more preferable Velcro, but they fit well and support her better than the slip-ons she was wearing for walking.)

In her room after lunch, I put the shoes on her, as she was going to have more PT later. There was nothing I could say or do, (other than not putting them on at all) that made it alright with her to wear those shoes. I explained all the benefits and how I was just trying to help...all that good stuff. She just sat there, in her Costco specials, and glared at the floor. When she finally looked up, her face said "Why did you do that to me?" What could I say?

Most of the time, dealing with stroke is just, well...hard. Occasionally, it is heartbreaking.

Oh No...Another Commercial (or 2)

Without going into a long medical history here, I'll just say that the events leading up to this clot/stroke event included numerous appointments with various practitioners of the medical arts, and even a couple of ER visits. After awhile, one gets a sort of stereotypical picture in mind when the term "medical" is even mentioned. For any one practitioner or facility to stand out from the rest, they have to be something quite extraordinary. One of them is.

Highline Medical Center was the care provider for Bettie's first nine days, and they were simply the best we could have hoped for.

• The physical facilities (which, like all hospitals in the world, I think, are still under construction/expansion) are impeccably maintained, clean and efficient. Even bordering on luxurious in some respects.
  
• Parking is convenient and free.
  
• They have state-of-the-art equipment and procedures. (Bettie came here in the first place because it was one of few places that had the equipment and know-how to do what she needed to have done.)
  
• They have excellent food, delivered hot and on time. Something even some restaurants struggle with.
  
• And the staff. What can I say? They were simply outstanding. I tried, in my last few minutes before Bettie checked out, to get around to as many of them as possible and thank them for their role in her care. And "Care" is the accurate term here...they obviously do. From the professional physicians and nurses, to the various assistants, even the volunteers. My hat's off to them all.

So my advice to you, should you find yourself staring up into the face of a 911 responder some day, is to croak out: "Take me to Highline!"

_____________________________

And now, for the other "commercial" mention: I want to thank the wonderful people at i1010 Communications for, among other things, helping me create this blog. Within minutes of the first alarm going out about Bettie, plans were made to fly their entire staff in from San Francisco.

OK, OK ... so i1010 is just my son Steve and his one-man web agency (and his contractors). But what kind of a dad wouldn't put in a plug for such a helpful a son. Reluctantly, I have to take him to the airport this morning so he can get back to earning a living. He will still be my faithful editor though, ("Hey Dad, did you forget to run spell-check ... again?") making me look like I can actually write.

So if you, or anyone you know, needs help with a web project of any size, Steve at i1010 Communications should be your go-to guy.

Dr. Heide: "Epic ... the word is Epic"

So there you have it folks ... she's making epic progress. Woo hoo!

So to celebrate, we went for a ride. At 6:00 this evening she checked out of Highline Medical Center and took a nice scenic drive down the valley to Auburn Regional Medical Center, with our son Steve riding shotgun.

I had arrived at Highline at five o'clock to help her with dinner, as usual, and pack up her stuff. My dinner "help" consisted of giving her two bites of squash, after which Steve said: "She's doing so well with her left hand now, why don't you give her the spoon?" And so I did.

So much for helping her with eating ... and I was just getting good at it. You'd almost think she was a natural lefty the way she mowed down the rest of the squash, most of the turkey and half the potato. After a few tries, she even got the hang of getting some drippy mushroom soup over the lips. By the time she got to the chocolate pudding, she was full...just as well I think. Total time to down dinner: 35 minutes.

Right after dinner, the cabulance (that's what they call a specially equipped van, that accommodates a wheel chair) arrived and they began readying her for the trip.

Dr. Heide put in a brief appearance and that's when I told him I needed a big doctor word to describe this: and I mimicked Bettie's latest right arm gymnastics. That's when he gave me his new adjective for her rate of recovery: "Epic".

So now she is sleeping in her new temporary home: Room 483 in Auburn Regional Medical Center. Her bed is by the window, with a view of Mt. Rainier. She's in the Acute Rehab Center, on the fourth floor. Take elevator "C".

(Watch for a post tomorrow afternoon when I'll have a better idea of her schedule and good times to drop by - when she not working out in the gym or with the speech therapist.)

If you compare the general tone of this post with the first one, ("The Day it Happened.") you will probably notice that this one is lighter, upbeat and more hopeful. If you perceive it that way, it is because ... it's true, I am.

Thanks to all of you for your part in that.

(My son Steve was a professional photojournalist for many years so he documented Bettie's recovery from the start. Here's the last video of her in Highline Medical Center, looking tired but on her way out the front door this evening. Yay!)


Going, going, gone!

And Now, a Word From Our Sponsor

The tool Steve and I are using to create this blog is owned by Google, you know them…yea, that Google. One of the features it allows me to do is put commercial ads along side the posts, as a means of earning a little something. Of course I'm not doing that, and won't. But if you'd allow me just this once, I would like to put in a word for a commercial enterprise that has risen so far above and beyond reason to accommodate me in this -- what shall we call it? -- this adventure?... that they deserve some favorable mention.

That entity is UPS. Yea, good old Big Brown.

The company I work for, iShip, is a little, but important, subsidiary of UPS. We create, manage, and host the retail shipping software used in all the UPS Stores, and also in a lot of other customer locations; like Nordstrom for instance. The people here are like a little family.

I guess there are around 50 of us, but from time to time we are visited by high level people from UPS and they make us feel like we are the real reason UPS is successful. Good people do that.

I write the online Help for our products, and dabble in training documentation, Flash demos, and such. My contribution is not on the critical path of our products functionality, but the people here make me feel very important. People ask me: "Dick, why aren't you retired?". "What, and let UPS fail? I couldn't do that!" Is my answer :-)

Like many very large companies, UPS self insures. That means that the health insurance we enroll in here at iShip, and the ultimate payer for Bettie's treatment, will be UPS. To me, of course, this is huge, huge, huge. Probably no big deal in the grand scheme of things for UPS but nevertheless, I'm grateful beyond words to have it.

But it isn't the insurance and the monetary considerations that make UPS and iShip great, it's the people...the heart.

UPS was founded right here where I live, in the Puget Sound area, actually in downtown Seattle. (The headquarters is now in Atlanta...or is it the iShip building in Factoria?) The founder, Jim Casey, was obsessed with two things: reliable on-time package delivery, and corporate integrity. The integrity part is what shows up in times like this.

Here are some of ways this UPS spirit has affected me:

• Tuesday morning, on my way from the hospital in Auburn to the hospital in Burien I get a cell call from my good iShip buddy Sid Heinz. (Sid is the one that "brought" me from a previous company where we both worked.) This is very early in the episode and Bettie's life, let alone quality of life, is still very much in question. "Forget everything here" Sid told me "Concentrate on Bettie, we've got it all covered here. We're praying for you".
  
  Ever try driving with tears in your eyes? Don't try it.
  
  
• Tuesday afternoon, just after Bettie's procedure with Dr Wiess, I'm at her bedside and I get a call on my cell phone from Tim Davis. Tim runs two of UPS's subsidiaries from his homebase in San Diego. iShip is one of them. He's got two companies to run, but he's calling to encourage me...he didn't have to do that.
  
  It undoes me now, just to remember it.
  
  
• Wednesday I'm making my first contact back to iShip and Cheryl Gray, our HR gal appears to have dropped everything to look into insurance issues for me. Very helpful. Then the next day I get this e-mail from her, subject: "Just checking in".
  
  It was a lot more than that...lots of insurance info, etc.., But that subject line just made me feel...supported.
  
  
• Just last night I get this (an excerpt from a longer message) from Shaindell Goldhaber, my immediate supervisor: "Please let me know if there’s anything you need, either personally or work related. Your work family will do everything it can to support you during this stressful time. I understand your need/desire to work, so I won’t chastise you for coming in. Just be sure you give yourself all the time you need to support Bettie and to take care of yourself as well."
  
  What a sweetheart I work for.

I could go on with other support I've gotten from my work family, but you get the idea that these are special people indeed.

So, if you are one of the countless people who have said "Just let me know if there is anything I can do", my answer is "Ship something using UPS!"

What can Brown do for you? More than you'll probably ever know.

To Pray for Bettie, Click Here

I know many of you following Bettie's progress are people of faith. I can't count the number of "Our thoughts and prayers are with you..." messages the family has received in comments here, e-mails, and directly. They mean a lot...really.

However, if you are not a person of faith, I'm going to have my son Steve, insert a "Pray for Bettie" button on the blog, so you can just click it occasionally and feel good. Huh? Oh, sorry. Steve says he can't do that. I guess we'll have to just do it the old fashioned way.

Seriously though, for those of you who are praying, I'd like to share some specific things that are on my heart that you could lift up:

• Number one on the family's mind is to pray for peace in Bettie's mind. The hardest part of every day, is leaving her bedside. We usually wait until she is asleep to slip away. Then we wonder, "Did she wake up and find no one there, is she afraid, confused, lonely, wondering why we have abandoned her?" You can imagine the state these thoughts can put you in. We want to know that she is at peace with it all.
• The family needs that same peace...to know that she is OK, when we can't be there. Especially mention our son Rick, who works in Las Vegas, and can't be here with his mother, where his heart is.
• Please include Dr Aaron Heide in your prayers. He works tirelessly with stroke patients all over the Puget Sound area, at great personal sacrifice. He has seen Bettie every day, weekends included, sharing his professionalism...and his heart.

Of course, the God we love and serve can do anything, we know that. It goes without saying that we would love to have her just come home, whole and well today. Nothing wrong with praying for that. But while we await that event, we are looking for (and already seeing, here and there) the promise that "All things work together for good to them that love God..." (Rom 8:28) Pray that this promise will yeild much fruit. Think of the thrill Bettie will have, when all the good that has come from her trial is revealed to her.

Honoring Bettie

Honor is kind of a big deal to me. It is to Bettie too, though we express it in different ways. The diminishing of the importance of honor in society is something we frequently lament in conversations together. Well, we did until this.

As society moves to a more casual approach to almost everything, I suppose our attempt to be honoring to others may make us look more and more out of step. For example: If Bettie and I dress up for a performance (to honor the performers) -- or most any time we leave the house -- and even the performers don't take notice, or, worse yet, they think we look funny or perhaps overdressed, have we been honoring? I wonder.

Nevertheless, we will continue our "outdated" or "old fashioned" ways. Honor may be old fashioned but it's never out of style.

I talked about honoring Bettie to family the other day: "Let's try to keep the kitchen looking as grandma would have it," was what I said to the grandchildren. Little stuff like that becomes even more important now I think. It keeps her presence real, though it isn't reality, for now. I find myself being more careful about the little things that are important to her, more careful than just last week even.

This shows the value of her uncompromising standards. They linger in her absence...and make us all better. What a woman!