The beautiful Beatrice

      She was, no question, the most important person in my life.

      The day I met Beatrice -- she was wearing pink and looking attractive -- was the luckiest day of my lucky life. Little did I know that day would turn into 49 years of being blessed.

       She gave me my two greatest gifts -- the beautiful little blond boy who charmed me from our first meeting (he was 2 when she brought him to my apartment) and the strawberry blonde baby girl who made us a complete family.

        They were the most precious pieces of her life.

        I hurt for those kids today; I have for months. I know their hearts were breaking these past two years, but especially the last five months when the outcome was inevitable.

        The beautiful Beatrice -- and she was beautiful in so many ways -- left us Saturday afternoon, her life complete after 80-plus years. She passed away in the memory-care unit at Trinity Terrace, our seniors residency since June 2018.

        Dementia really took so much of her from us, but it was uterine cancer -- diagnosed in mid-May -- that diminished her as time wound down. 

       So, really, no surprise Saturday. The tough part was knowing that the call would come one day soon. The grief is cumulative, starting months ago, and there were many fitful nights, waking at all hours and contemplating just how to handle this.

        It was, honestly, difficult to answer the many inquiries: "How's Bea?" What do you say, other than, "not good." The details were discouraging.

         But bless all the people who cared, so many of you. So grateful for all the support -- here at Trinity Terrace, from the Friday morning support group at the James L. West Center across the street, from my friends in Louisiana and Fort Worth-Dallas, and far beyond (Hawaii, my home country the Netherlands, Belgium, Israel). 

       Also, thanks so much to the nurses and staff in memory care and in skilled nursing at Trinity Terrace. They loved her, cared for her. And it was difficult; those are hard jobs. 

        Same, too, for the Hospice+ staffers who tried to make her comfortable in so many ways.

        The feeling, in the everyday visits to the memory-care unit, was helplessness. And sadness, just to see her struggle, to see the loss of bodily functions, the loss to communicate.  

        It was so unlike her to have to depend on help for almost everything. This was one independent, determined woman.

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      Why she loved me so I spent years trying to comprehend. But she did, thank goodness. I surely tested her ... repeatedly.

       As one of my friends said yesterday, "she put up with you for all these years."

       I could not have done better. Trusted her completely (she could not say the same of me).

       She was my best friend, my biggest supporter, my conscience. I depended on her counsel. I would bounce ideas off her, let her read my stories. Because I knew she would give me an honest opinion.

       She was the most honest person I've known, a rules follower (I often am not).

       If she saw something she didn't think would play well, she would make a suggestion for improvement. One constant was that she said that I wrote too long, had too many off-course turns. She was usually right (but that didn't mean I always would make changes).

       She saw me get verbally berated -- job-related -- a couple of times. To her great credit, she stayed calm and, hard to believe, so did I.

       And I never, ever, saw her berate anyone ... outside of our little family. 

       She was a dedicated, passionate mother. She loved those kids, and she always knew what to do to make their lives better. She spoiled them -- so here we clashed some -- but if they did not meet the Bea standards, she would let them know. 

       I see those kids today as dedicated, passionate parents -- because they had a role model (and it wasn't me).

       She was a kind, compassionate person, willing to help anyone she thought needed it. She volunteered for many ventures, especially when the kids were still in school.

       But let's be honest. We clashed often; there were many battles. It was, as I've said often, a happy marriage ... some years. 

       Look, she had a stubborn, obstinate side. She could be caustically critical; she often was a devil's advocate, just for the hell of it. And nice as she was, if she thought a person was a phony, or a BS-er, or had mistreated someone she loved or cared for, she would mostly cut them out of her life 

       She was tough and resilient. She had plenty of physical challenges -- two colon-cancer battles, and she survived, and two major surgeries, chemo, radiation...

       My volatile career meant multiple (many) moves. She always adapted, arranged the moves, made a comfortable home for us, and always found a job (or two, if needed). She was willing to try anything, even a stint in newspaper work (editorial department assistant). 

       Too bad that the many moves, and marriage/motherhood, kept her from earning a college degree. Because she was an A-plus student when she was in school. She was so intelligent -- much more so than me.

      She loved to read and stayed interested in the current news. Loved to cook, loved to eat, travel, and she so enjoyed her coloring books (many hours spent that way, and especially with granddaughter Josie). 

      For a decade -- in Tennessee and then in Texas -- she found the job she really loved, as an antiques/collectibles dealer. It was challenging, and not a big money-maker, but it was the most rewarding part of her life, other than being a mother and Granny.

     Proof of her resolve: She was a smoker for 30-plus years. She liked smoking; a pack-and-a-half a day was routine. The danger didn't matter. But when her Dad -- her main smoking partner -- died, she quit not long after. Cold. It was not easy. But she never smoked again.  (She did like a drink or two, but not in excess. She was funny with a couple of drinks.)

      She was a sports fan when we met, thank goodness. It became a big part of her life, of course, but I was enough of a fanatic for both of us (because of that, she got her fill of it). But watching Jason play soccer for 11 years, she sat through hundreds of games ... in all kinds of weather, and in many places.

     And one night in middle-school football, when Jason carried the opening kickoff to the end zone, the usually demure Bea stood and screamed, "Go, baby, go!"

      There also was this moment: Jason's high school soccer team (Orange Park, Florida) playing, and Bea sitting next to the mother of a star player. Down the way in the stands, a "fan" hollering encouragement -- positive, I swear -- to Jason's team, mixed with a few helpful  suggestions for the referee and linesmen. "Who is that idiot?" the woman inquired of Bea. The reply: "That's my idiot."

     She not a braggart; she was selfless. The thought of this blog would have had her rolling her eyes. 

     But she was proud, and her proudest time -- she referenced this often, with tears -- was how she sat with my mother, our Oma Rose, in her final weeks.

    Bea stayed in Shreveport to care for her after Mom's fall and broken hip, and stay in a rehab facility. Bea came home for one  weekend and when she returned, Mom said, "Please don't leave me again." She didn't, and she was holding Mom's hand when she passed away on a Sunday morning. 

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       The decline began with finances. Since the start of our marriage, she had done the banking/bill paying; we found that it worked better for us that way. Neither of us were big spenders, nor where we big earners.

        She craftily worked us out of debt at one point, and while she liked nice things, she was thrifty, and not materialistic. 

       But as her short-term memory kept slipping, a loss for words, sentences not finished, thoughts scattered, she no longer could do the bills and checkbook. So I took that over. 

      Soon, it was the laundry, and the grocery shopping. And the medical/dental and other appointments. Cooking became a problem; that stove was hot. 

       Using the microwave was difficult; how to set the timer for even simple tasks. Computer use was frustrating. Answering the phone or making a call was confusing. 

      Her coloring pencils and coloring books were stashed in about a half dozen containers -- not kidding -- all over the apartment. She arranged, and re-arranged them daily ... for hours at a time.

       Two pair of her glasses disappeared (found them a month later, buried deep in a clothes bin in the closet). Her Trinity Terrace name tag was gone (found it a year later, a couple of weeks ago, buried in a trunk in our living room with more coloring books and pencils).

      Banana peelings were everywhere, stufffed in drawers, even in the bathroom. Band-aids, for some reason, also were everywhere. 

       The falls were more frequent, more scary. A couple of times she wandered out of the apartment -- I was gone -- and security one day spotted her in the stairwell on the second floor (we live on the sixth floor). Worse yet, almost every night she asked where she was supposed to sleep. And a dozen times, where to go to use the bathroom (several times she started out the apartment door to find a place to go).

     Caring for her in the apartment became an increasing challenge. She fell so often and it reached a point where I no longer could help her up. Had to call security for assistance repeatedly, including once at 4 a.m. She didn't want me to do it, argued, but I had to.

        She was mostly fortunate not to be badly injured, other than bruises. But a fall on her face in the bathroom was scary. No breaks (nose, teeth), but two black eyes and purple-green-yellow bruises for weeks. 

       And then in mid-April, she called me into the bathroom and pointed out the blood in the toilet. Night after night, blood spots, a couple of times more severe. 

       Finally, after too long, an appointment with a gynecologist. A Pap smear and a bioposy, and the doctor told me, "It looks like cancer." Samples were sent to be tested. Two days later, he called and said, "It is cancer. You need to see an onconlogist."

       That visit came quickly. He was direct: "It is a high-grade, poorly differential uterine cancer."

        One option: Surgery and mandatory chemo. Bea heard him -- Jason and I let her make the call -- and said no. For years she had insisted she would never do surgery or chemo again.

       Jason asked about a time frame; the doctor gave us one. Only other option: palliative radiation. We never got there.

        That made one choice easy: We needed to place her in skilled nursing at Trinity Terrace. Done, on Memorial Day. And we began hospice care that day.

        After six weeks there, with her falling repeatedly -- thinking she could still walk without help -- the staff there daily placed her at the nurses' station with her coloring books and pencils, just to keep her from moving around.

      Then they called me in, and said we think she should be in memory care. So we made that move. It got more difficult from that point, and the cancer spread. 

       Can't say for sure, but have to believe that her brain was affected the past couple of weeks. The blank stares, the lack of response many days, finally the inability to talk -- she could only mumble and it was nearly impossible to understand -- and trouble swallowing. 

      She was given small doses of morphine to alleviate the pain the past couple of weeks.

      The staff felt that she had a couple of TIAs (minor strokes), and that she didn't have use of her left arm and hand for a few weeks. The most recent episode was only a few days ago; staff and the hospice nurses noticed a significant decline.

    Her final couple of months were spent either in bed or in a wheelchair/recliner. She ate little, could do little other than stare into space. It was a miserable existence. And still there were many sweet expressions from her toward the staffers treating her. I saw that. 

     Plus, I was able to get a few grins from her with my usual silliness, and usually with recalls of things the grandkids did or said many years ago ("great job, Granny!" and "I made a big old mess.")

       Oh, she loved those kids so much.

       Rachel and her kids saw her a couple of weeks ago. So did Jason and his boys. Sister Alice with husband Leonard made a visit on Thursday. Bea knew they were there; she smiled and tried to talk.

        So often these past months, she would say to me, "Take me home." One day she said, "Get me out of this jail." I always told her the nurses and staff were there to take care of her.

       But she will be going home. She donated her body to the UNT Health Science Center here in Fort Worth for medical research. When they are done, she will be cremated.

        She did not want a memorial service. An obit, this blog and a video tribute will suffice. But eventually we are going to take her ashes back to Northwest Louisiana and spread them where her parents are buried in Providence Cemetery between Ringgold and her home town, Jamestown.

          She was my sweetheart, our sweetheart, a beautiful person. Our Beatrice. May her memory be a blessing.   

        (And, yes, she would say that this piece is much too long. But, darn it, she deserves it.) 

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