It will be 16 weeks tomorrow. We go on with our lives, but it will never be the same. It just won't. She'll always be in our thoughts, in our everyday choices.
Many people have said to focus on the good times, the good memories. So, one is that her kids and grandkids all visited with her in the final weeks; the photo of Josie sitting next to her is a treasure. And her youngest sister, Alice, and husband Leonard visited her two days before the end.
For me, it's much less interesting here. She was great company ... most of the time, although the last couple of years included a lot of difficult days.
People ask how I am, how am I doing, and the answer is, "fine." But not as fine as before.
Don't mind living alone; I did have the final 4 1/2 months in the apartment by myself once we moved her to skilled nursing and then the memory-care unit at Trinity Terrace, our seniors residency in Fort Worth.
I have received a great deal of support -- sympathy, encouragement -- from friends, here at Trinity Terrace, and the wide span of my longtime connections, even beyond those who remain on my contacts lists. So that's nice.
But the anniversary date hits home.
For years, Bea and I would exchange cards, and even flowers and candy were part of it, and always an outing for a good meal. Nothing fancy because that wasn't us, but Bea liked Red Lobster or P.F. Chang ... and I think, I hope, she liked the attention.
She wasn't the sentimental one in this pairing for remembering significant dates, but she did like February 6, although over 48-plus years, she must have had second -- third, fourth, etc. -- thoughts about it.
Hey, it was often a disagreeable marriage. As I've noted several times, I apologized a lot. But one of the most touching things Bea said in discussing our relationship -- as her days were dwindling and she was weakening -- was "we were two difficult people."
It was a sweet moment.
In preparing this piece, I thought about last year's anniversary (No. 48). Went to my gratitude journal entry for that day; it read in part: "... We got lots of attention on Facebook and e-mail. Very nice. Bea again was depressed in the morning, but got going some and spent almost all the day on the couch. She was reasonably happy. She just is not eating much, although I keep trying and asking about [food] items we have."
The next day's entry, though, is telling: "Bea was very depressed this morning, unwilling to get out of bed or do anything, very tearful. I was having a tough time; thank goodness the caretaker came in at 9. We found Bea on the bedroom floor, where she had fallen and was crying. But [the caretaker] settled her down, and did a good job with her until [leaving at] 1 p.m."
This was only a couple of weeks after some entries in my book about really difficult moments, including times when -- lost --she wandered out of the apartment, and a month when several times she had no idea who I was.
Many more examples I could cite. Hard days, and this was a few months before the uterine cancer began making its presence known.
So, yes, she had her tearful days. We never talked about it; she wasn't one to feel sorry for herself openly. She didn't complain, even months later when we could see her wincing in pain.
But deep down, she must have felt her time was short, and the thought of leaving her kids and grandkids -- and everyone else -- had to be depressing.
In my view, our kids -- Jason and Rachel -- handled all this well. I know they were hurting. With her, they were loving and supportive, and both were very close to her, always. For all of us, our tears came privately.
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In the weekly support group for Alzheimer's/dementia caretakers -- we meet every Friday morning at the James L. West Center, just across the street from Trinity Terrace, a frequent discussion is about grief.
If you are living with someone, or caring for them, with memory issues, I recommend finding a group like this.
Part of the journey is that we grieve, long before the final parting. Putting that grief in perspective, dealing with it, is among the lessons.
Our moderator/educator, Hollie, suggested recently that one exercise is to write a letter to Alzheimer's or dementia expressing your feelings, be it anger or sorrow or frustration.
I suppose this will count as my letter. Figure the wedding anniversary is good timing for it.
The grief isn't on the surface. It's deep, and sometimes it's surprising. There are daily reminders of her, ones that bring tears. Hollie terms these "grief bursts."
Pictures, certainly. Thinking of her moments with Josie, coloring together. Eli at the swimming pool here or walking the labyrinth with his Granny closeby. Watching Jacob play trumpet or Kaden play soccer. A hundred, thousand moments with Jason and Rachel ... and me.
Watching CBS Sunday Morning and the PBS Newshour -- two Bea favorites. Seeing YouTube or TV clips of Willie Nelson and Kris Kristofferson singing ... she loved 'em both.
Our Social Hour programs here at Trinity Terrace, especially the musical ones. Bea enjoyed them. The White Elephant Store ladies working hard here; she was in charge of that for a few months.
During Bea's last year, it wasn't anger I was feeling. Those who know me know how anger has been part of life, often a destructive -- and costly -- anger. But not here.
Frustrating, yes, especially when Bea would not do things to keep her safe. Did not realize her limitations, did not know how to best stay safe ... dementia ruled. Thus, falls and bruises. Luckily, no breaks or stitches.
Mostly, I felt sad, helpless, resigned to the knowledge that it would not get better. But no one was to blame. This was her fate, our fate. She was a proud person, and she didn't want pity.
Had a caretaker friend who told me he felt sorry for himself. That was never me. Felt sorry for the kids, and for her. Such a very smart, beautiful woman did not deserve this (no one does).
At times, it seems surreal that she's gone. I think when I get in bed -- she usually went to bed much earlier than me -- that she'll be there in the morning. But as the Zombies sang in 1964: "... She's not there."
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To go with this piece, I prepared a collage of Bea photos. Also did a collage of Jason and Rachel together. A former boss once told another editor that "layout was not [my] strong suit." (Nice recommendation, huh?)
I like these layouts. Fairly easy to do on computer; just crop photos, size them, and put them in order.
Bea would have scoffed at the collage of her, rolled her eyes and said not necessary. But I know she would have loved the one of the kids.
Bea went through a period of anger -- physical and verbal -- with me and the nurses/staff -- for about a month. As Rachel noted, there was a lot of pent-up anger from years of conflicts.
But that settled, and one really pleasant memory for me is that every day the last couple of months when I would go to see her, she would spot me and smile, her eyes brightened, and every day she would say, "I love you."
Every day, and on the last evening 112 days ago, I answered, "And I love you. I'll be back soon."
I will tell her now, because in a way she is still there: Happy anniversary, honey.
