A different anniversary day

     Our 49th wedding anniversary is today and as most of you likely know, Beatrice is no longer here to celebrate it.                                                         Miss her every day. But it is especially daunting today, as much as any day since the fateful Saturday, October 18. 

     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.

     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.   

---

     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."

---

     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.

              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.

     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.   

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.

---

      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 had a better partner. 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, liked to 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 was 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 Mom's 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. 

--- 

       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 were 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 confirmed, "It is cancer. You need to see an onconlogist."

       At that visit a few days later, he was direct: "It is a high-grade, poorly differential uterine cancer." (Translation: likely terminal.) 

        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. Youngest sister Alice, with husband Leonard,  made a visit on Thursday. Bea knew they were there; she smiled and tried to talk.

        Two days later, she was gone. 

        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.) 

---     

Bea tribute.pptx 

We have been on the move

     Had to wait a couple of days for this: Thank so many of you for your birthday/Father's Day messages. Think I hit the 300-plus mark on messages.

     There was a reason for the thank-you delay: We moved.

     If there was any doubt that we are now senior citizens -- you did not really doubt that, did you? -- it now is official.

     We now live in a "retirement community" (which means senior citizens). And we are happy about it.
     This was Bea's dream. Over the past five years, skeptical me became convinced this was the right thing to do.
      So this move is my 71st birthday and my Father's Day present this year.

The view from our sixth-floor patio looking southeast in Fort Worth.

      Our new home is on the edge of downtown Fort Worth, a complex of three high-rise buildings -- and it is a well-respected, highly recommended and well-run facility.
     We visited here -- by invitation -- more than a couple of times and became more and more convinced this was the right community for us. So, yes, I was recruited.
      It is our 16th move in 41 years together -- it has been a long road, folks -- and we are 99 percent sure it is our last one.
     The apartment we just left, near the Trinity River and Colonial Country Club (about 100 yards across the river from the fourth green), was almost new when we moved in eight years ago. We liked it, but it is not so new now. We lived there longer than any place in our time together.
     Moving in here -- sixth floor, in the original of the three buildings -- we have had to downsize considerably. But we have been doing that for years. 
     What that forces is to choose practicality over sentimentality; we let go of things we had for decades. For instance, I had clippings, photos and magazines/newspapers from way, way back. They are gone. Copied what I could into computer files.
     But we came into a completely scrapped and then refurbished apartment. Everything is new. 
     That was one incentive. Also, health care is a top priority here, with an extensive program and facilities. And there is a long-term financial guarantee.
     Sure, it is costly. Honestly, I did not think we could do it. But with the guidance of our financial advisor and the help of our sales rep here (the can-do-it-all Gretchen Lincoln), it became doable.
     Some expenses -- such as utilities -- were cut. And because transportation is provided in many instances, we are not going to need our car as often, and eventually plan to do without it. (If we need to rent a car for trips, there is a rental company within five minutes.) 
     We have found the management staff and workers here so competent and cooperative. And the people in the community have been overwhelmingly welcoming these first three days.
     Lots of older people here; yesterday I met a woman who is 97 and a man in his mid-90s, both residents here for more than 20 years. 
     So we are among the younger residents  and we think, we hope, we can be helpful here. A number of residents are not-yet-retired doctors and attorneys and many others carry on busy lives outside this community.
     I will not be the biggest baseball fan here. One fairly new resident is baseball royalty -- a New York Yankees World Series star, high-ranking baseball executive who has had a rich, full life of excellence in medicine, too.                
     There is a general store in the building, workout facility, a heated indoor swimming pool, all sorts of exercise and wellness areas, a library, an office-type workroom, rooms for visiting (with card games and puzzles), and there are many scheduled activities (shopping trips, speakers, exercise, special occasions).

      Bea already is set to work in "white elephant" monthly sales shop (clothes, furniture, knick-knacks, etc.); various book clubs are available; and Bea wants to start a coloring (book) club.
     We can walk -- if the weather is decent -- to the YMCA where we exercise 3-4 days a week and the Fort Worth Central Library -- a frequent stop for us -- is across the street from the Y. 

      If, long-term, we need a car for trips, a rental company is closeby. So are banks. So are big shopping areas; we already have tried that walk. And our new facility provided us with a shopping cart.

      Because we now have one bedroom, one bath and a smaller living area and kitchen, we carefully chose what to bring. 
      Moving is never easy, but we are experienced and Bea did most of the packing because one of us knows what they are doing.
      It is a new adventure, and it is exciting. The facility's assistant executive director, extending a welcome Tuesday, said, "You are on a cruise ship now. Enjoy it."

      We intend to enjoy it. Come see us.

Birthday No. 70: It's Bea's day

     She is 70 today. Amazing.
     Yes, it is Easter Sunday and for us baseball fans, it is one of the great days of the year, Opening Day (well, for me and the Yankees, it's Monday). But for the Van Thyns, this is Beatrice's Birthday.
     "You don't have to write anything about me," she said Saturday. Of course, I don't. But sometimes -- not often -- I don't do what she says.
     Right.
     And I'm proud of her. So are Jason and Rachel, and the two in-law kids (Ann, Russell), and I know the four grandchildren (Josie, Jacob, Kaden, Eli) are even if they're not all quite aware.
     Even Beatrice Annett Shaw Key Van Thyn -- born 4-5-45 -- will admit she is proud to celebrate her 70th birthday today.
     "The standard significant birthdays that everyone goes by -- the 20th, 40th, 50th -- didn't mean that much to me," she said Saturday, "but this one feels epic. I'm just so grateful to be here, and to have my health."
     Well, yes, there was colon cancer 13 years ago and then a recurrence three years later, and 30 years of smoking (and then to stop cold some 15 years ago). So good health is a major victory (as it is with anyone, at any age).
     She does go through physical discomfort occasionally, but she battles and she is tough ... and, well, we all make mistakes we regret. But here is what I love: Most days she has a young mind-set and a young attitude. With her, "younger next year" is more than a book title.
     She has become a workout enthusiast and she continues her yoga classes and home practice,  and she has encouraged her roommate to join the yoga classes. That's right.
     Honestly, we don't always agree. There is more than one stubborn, hard-headed, argumentative person living here. One of us in not quite as anti-football (getting there, but not giving it up yet); one of us is not quite the NBA/Mavericks fan the other one is; one of us doesn't give a rip about the others' favorite teams and sports.
      But we do love books and our book club, the Fort Worth Symphony Orchestra pops concerts, and jazz concerts, visits to the YMCA; we eat healthier and wiser (much of the time); we keep the apartment clean as we can; we are diligent about laundry and car maintenance; we do our grocery shopping together once a week ... and mostly we love visiting with the kids and grandkids -- in person, by phone or by Facetime.
       She loves her I-Pad and Google, and Facebook, and her new smart phone (finally), and Michio Kaku, Neil deGrasse Tyson, Deepak Chopra, Morgan Freeman and the Wormhole and -- for some reason -- Person of Interest. Also, Dancing With The Stars and Downton Abbey.
       She tolerates (barely) our cats ... most of the time.
       She is wise about money, and people, and doing what's right. She is planning for our future.
       She is my biggest booster, and my biggest critic, and I am hers. If I'm writing a blog (often) or a speech (rare), and I need help or revision -- or to be told it's too long -- I know who to ask.
        (I hope this isn't too long. But her view is going to be that anything I write about her is too long.)
        I love the way she is concerned about friends, about her sisters, her late brother's widow and all the families involved, and mostly the way she looks after her kids, their spouses and their kids ... and me.
        It's her 70th, and it's a great day. Happy Birthday, Miss Bea ... and many more.