17 comments/ 13812 views/ 2 favorites Waltzing With Jean By: Ronnie Wachuka The wind pushed the pellets of rain and snow under my hat forcing the rain drops to run down my glasses, which made the view before me a very surreal picture as we gathered around the bronze urn sitting on the grave site on that miserable November day in 1995. The weather was raw enough so that my sister and her daughter were pressed hard up against me, although I knew from the way their arms were wrapped around me they were also wanting to give and receive some mutual comfort in their grief. I could feel their bodies shaking as they clung to me but I had no idea how much of their shaking was from the cold or how much from their grief as the tears rolled down their respective cheeks. I turned my head to watch Rev. Peters approach the urn to deliver his final pronouncement, while also observing that my son John was pressed tightly against my niece as he made it evident that he too was in need of comforting. Rev. Peters having recited his final prayer over the urn containing my wife's ashes, stepped around it to hold each of the ladies hands for a second. then to hug my son and finally to embrace me. His final words to me were a softly murmured, "We are all going to miss her Ron, she was a woman that you couldn't help but love, but you know that; you two were married for almost 35 years. Now come back to the hall for a bite and some fellowship." The sparse crowd was scurrying to get out of the morose atmosphere gathered round us by weather and event and back to the hall where it was warm and dry. Though the crowd at the grave site had been small, it's size was not indicative of the love and respect that all who knew my wife freely bestowed upon her during her lifetime. In fact, at her memorial service at the lodge hall there were over 175 people from all parts of the state and even from British Columbia there for her service. Which might not make her memorial service an extraordinary event, except that the service was held two days before Thanksgiving. What also made it extraordinary was the fact that in the several days before her memorial service and the weeks following, for every person present, I had at least one card, letter, or phone call expressing regrets because of travel plans, family events, etc. If all had been able to attend who expressed a wish and a regret, I have no idea where we would have found a place to hold her services. To explain my wife I have to tell you something about her. It is said that the hardest job in the world is to be a wife and mother. That is only partially true. Just as in the US Navy there are groups whose lot may be relatively easy, There are others who by their job or skill have gone beyond the normal. There are sailors who never go to sea and then there are the SEALs. Get my drift? In wifehood and motherhood there are wives and mothers, then there are Navy wives and mothers. I know there will be some howling by the other armed service wives and mothers, but until 9/11 most (but not all) service wives lived on some base with their husbands and families. True the husband had to go on exercises or fly out someplace for a week or two, but the Navy wife sees her husband sail away 6 months out of each year to some place or other. Even when he is home, he isn't, because half of the time he is out to sea getting ready to deploy. Why and how they stay married, raise a family, and live on a pauper's pay, or want to, I haven't a clue. But to all of you Navy wives; God bless you because you are the SEALs of the wife and mother world, and that dear hearts was a large part of who and what my wife was. She was a sailors wife. The cream of the crop. On a weekend in September of the year of her passing my wife Jean became very ill. Not knowing what was causing it I rushed her into the emergency room at St. Joseph Hospital, after notifying our family doctor. The evening dragged on for an eternity before the family doctor was able to inform me that after examination and a lot of testing it had been determined that my wife had internal problems and was even now being prepped for exploratory surgery. Because a lot of the surgery was exploratory to determine exactly what the problem was, he had nothing to offer until the completion of the surgical procedure. So I waited for hours, worrying and just being scared for the woman I'd lived with and learned to love for such a large part of my life. Finally the doctor and the surgeon who'd performed the operation met me in the waiting room to drop the bombshell: my wife had ovarian cancer. They'd been able to surgically remove most of it but it had spread to her lower bowel and they'd had to perform a bowel resection. He glumly informed me that they'd not been successful in completely removing all of the cancer and that another operation would be needed. He'd set it up at the University of Washington Medical Center in Seattle to operate as soon as she could travel. As soon as my wife could come home I checked her out of St. Joes and brought her home under the strictest injunction that she was not to do anything but rest. This meant that I was now the chief cook-and-bottle-washer. But I was well prepared for that as I am a pretty good cook. My dad had worked on the ore boats on the Great Lakes as a cook, and my mother was a good cook, but because of her feminist leanings she refused to indulge herself. Her belief was that if you can't stuff it into a pressure cooker, don't bother. In self defense, if I didn't want to eat food that was unidentifiable and all the same color, I'd had to learn to cook. When we were first wed my wife couldn't boil water. As the oldest in her family, her job was to bring money into a dirt poor family and not to be the cook. That task was left to her youngest sister Eliza, the lady who'd held me so tightly at the grave side. After I taught Jean a few of the basics of cooking she found that she had a real talent for it and for the remainder of our marriage I was barred from the kitchen under threat of great bodily harm if I invaded "her space." Our doctor finally determined that she was fit to travel and so I drove her down to the UW Medical Center. Upon checking in I was informed that the remainder of the day would be one of testing and that the surgery was scheduled for the following morning. I drove back down to the UW Medical Center very early the next morning so that I could be with my wife before the surgical prepping began. I was finally kicked out of her room to take up residency in the waiting room. I had been given to understand that the surgeon performing the procedure was the best surgeon on the West coast specializing in female cancer surgery, which was of little comfort because in my mind was the worrisome thought that even the best can make mistakes. After what seemed to be days and days the surgeon approached me in the waiting room. As soon as she asked me to take a seat I knew there was a problem. She seated herself next to me, took my hand, and informed me in a quiet voice that the operation was of limited success and that my wife had at best a 20% chance of living to the five year mark. I was totally devastated. I asked her if my wife knew of the prognosis, and she assured me that my wife was still out of it in Post Op and no one on the staff would tell her later. She also told me that I could not see my wife and that it would be several hours before she could be transferred from Post Op to the Critical Care Unit, and finally to the Intensive Care Unit so I might as well go home and try to rest up. As I rose to leave the doctor also rose and in a sad voice apologized because they had done their best and it hadn't been good enough. My mind was a jumble of thoughts on that two and a half hour trip home. Remembrances of events in our married life, worries about my mate, worries about the insurance, worries about how to take proper care of her when they released her. Problems, thoughts, worries, and memories. They all whirled through my mind at a 1000 miles a second like an out of control merry-go-round. The thoughts I kept suppressing were the thought of my life without my partner, and if the doctor was right, the thought of the horrible painful way she was going to take her leave of me. That night I had a lot of trouble trying to fall asleep. Even the tricks which every serviceman learns to use to get some shuteye when it's possible and necessary escaped me. It used to tick my wife off that I could almost instantly fall asleep under any and all circumstances inside of 2 minutes. She'd been really ticked off when she found out the doctor had to wake me in the waiting room while she'd been in labor for 18 hours to deliver our son. Late the next morning I showered, ate, drove to town to pick up our son, and headed back down to Seattle. After parking the car, we walked into the medical center, found out where they had moved her after coming out of ICU, hit the elevator, and shortly arrived at her room. Having watched hundreds of movies on TV with patients in hospital rooms hooked up to various pieces of machinery and an IV bottle does not prepare you for the sight when the patient is your ever loving wife. She was semi-reclining as the bed was elevated to allow her to sit up a little bit. Our son John gave her a slight hug and a peck on the cheek and stepped back so that I could greet my mate. After squeezing her hand and giving her a light kiss I also stepped back so that she wouldn't have to stretch or otherwise strain herself as we talked. After a few minutes of mild chit chat she suddenly broke down, clasped her hands together, lifted them to her breast and started to cry. The only words that escaped her lips were, "I'm so scared," which she repeated over and over again, as the tears streamed down her cheeks. I wanted to immediately hold and comfort her as the thought instantly raced through my mind that someone had told her of the poor prognosis following her surgery. I cast that suspicion aside and concluded that her fears about dying were probably foremost, but I also suspected that she was also afraid of all of the post op treatment, Radiation, Chemotherapy, etc, she was going to have to undergo to try to make her well and it was also weighing heavily on her mind. I turned to my son and told him to go get a coke, telling him under my breath to make himself scarce for at least 15 minutes. As soon as he'd departed, I closed the door, pulled my watch out of my pocket, turned to my wife and informed her that she had 2 minutes to cry, to scream, to throw a tantrum if she wanted to. I further informed her that once those 2 minutes were up, there'd be no more crying, no more tears, no more tantrums, so she needed to make this outburst a really good one. For those 2 minutes she sobbed silently, hiccuping every few seconds as she tried to regain her composure. As the minutes rolled on I grabbed a chair, drew it up alongside the bed, sat, and clasped her hands with both of my own. After gathering my thoughts for a few seconds I reminded her of all of the years that she had been a strong Navy wife, the best of the best. I reminded her of all of times she had been alone to be mother and father while I was deployed, about the times she knew I was sailing in harms way and yet she still had to carry on not knowing whether this was the cruise when the black official Navy vehicle would pull up to the curb with information she didn't want to hear. I reached my arm around her so that she could lay her head on my arm as I finally reminded her of the fact that she was not just a Navy wife, She was the wife of a Master Chief Petty Officer. There wasn't anything she couldn't do, and she was now about to undergo the worst that could happen and she had to be strong enough to face it and conquer it. If that sounds chauvinistic, consider this; All of the times she'd been left alone, all of the times she'd had to cope with problems without me had made her strong because she'd had to be strong. A large part of her being a strong woman was her pride in our accomplishments as I advanced in the Navy. Yes I said our because it was my desire to please her and make her proud of me that forced me to study and better myself. My final comment to her was simply a reminder: Master Chief's do not cry or whimper. They persevere and overcome. In like manner, the wife of a Master Chief does not cry or whimper. She also perseveres and overcomes. That having been said I placed my left arm across her chest so that I could give her a proper hug and quietly whispered in her ear as I began to kiss her and try to make the hurt and fear go away; "Honey, when it gets tough, when it seems like you can't go on, and it will, simply say to yourself I am the cream of the crop. I am a wife and mother, I am a Navy wife and mother, I am a Master Chief's wife. I am the best that there is and there is nothing I can't do, and also remember that I love you so very much and will be here for you." When my son returned to the room he found my wife lying in the bed with my head on her breast, her hand softly stroking my head, and a sad smile on her lips. For the next several weeks we settled into a routine. I'd drive down 3 or 4 times a week, bringing our son on the weekends. The days I didn't drive down I'd call her after supper and we'd chat for awhile. After awhile all of the instruments were unhooked except for the IV bag and they started having her do some exercises to get her strength back as she had to demonstrate that she was physically strong enough to be released. The weekend before she was due for release (we hoped), my son and I arrived for a visit. As the elevator door opened we were both struck dumb by the sight of Jean walking down the hall way pushing the IV dolly in front of her and muttering all the while as she disappeared from view, "I'm going to get my strength up and I'm going to get out of this damn hospital. I want to go HOME." John and I looked at each other for a second and then we both roared with laughter as we started down the hall way to round her up. The following week I made a joyous trip to the hospital. I was bringing my mate home. The trip home wore my lady out. I had her stay in the van until I put our two Black Labs, Gunner and Bosun, in the barn so that they wouldn't jump on her and perhaps injure her. After putting her to bed, I put a leash on the dogs one at a time and brought them up to the bedroom so they could greet her. Each dog in turn seemed to sense how weak she was and instead of trying to jump on the bed, sat next to the bed to lick her hand in greeting. After a few moments the dogs crawled upon the bed very carefully, and curling up, lay down on each side of her as if to protect her. I sat on a stool holding her hand as she closed her eyes. As she fell into a slumber her lips curled into a smile for the first time in weeks. Once I'd satisfied myself that she was resting I disengaged my hand and went out to the van to bring her things into the house. After several hours of rest she woke and asked for a bite to eat. Having made a crock pot of chicken soup before I'd left to bring her home, she, I, and the dogs dined on soup and crackers that night. After I washed the dishes we talked about the days ahead and what her wants and wishes were as far as meals were concerned. We talked about how she was going to look after her personal needs. I reminded her that the doctors forbade her to do anything but to rest in bed or sit in her chair. The exception for the next several months would be trips to town to see the various doctors, her radiation and chemotherapy treatments, and to gather up the medication and the painkillers she needed. All of the forgoing became the schedule that we adhered to until that terrible day when the walls of my world began to crumble: Wednesday 15 November 1995. That evil day started off normally in that we woke, cleaned up, and ate breakfast. Following breakfast she sat down in her rocker in the living room to read and watch TV while I did a little house cleaning and gathered up some laundry to put in the washing machine. Later that afternoon I had several things I needed to do so I made sure that she was comfortable, not in need of anything, and left to take care of my tasks. Returning home several hours later I found Jean still in her rocker with a blanket wrapped around her. She opened her eyes as I entered the house and slowly rising told me that she didn't feel well and that she was going to lay down. Upon inquiry she told me she wasn't hungry and just needed to lay down for awhile. She slowly walked up the stairs to the bedroom with the blanket still wrapped around her. I am a night owl so I settled down after supper to watch the TV, or listen to music and read, if there was nothing that I fancied on the boob tube. About 11:00 that evening I had my nose buried in a book when I heard my wife get out of bed. Assuming that she was merely going to the bathroom I gave it no notice and kept on reading. Suddenly I heard her call to me from the top of the stairs. Looking up I beheld a sight that after more then nine years is still seared into my brain and will be until the day I die. My wife was standing at the head of the stairs in her nighty. The lower half of the nighty was totally soaked with blood and blood was running down both legs. In almost a whisper she said in an apologetic tone, "I think I need to go to the hospital." I told her to stay where she was, grabbed the phone, looked up the family doctors home phone number on the calling card on the fridge, and called him. Dr. Barnes told me that as soon as I hung up he'd have 911 get Medic One headed out to pick her up and then make arrangements at St. Joes for the ambulance's arrival. He'd also be there waiting for us. Thinking this over for a mili-second I informed him that as we live in a very rural area and the road was hard to find that it would take too long. I'd drive her in myself as the ambulance had to come out from town, find the house, and drive back to town. I put a robe on my wife, a pair of flip flops on her feet, and all but carried her out to the van, which was no mean feat as my wife was 5"7" tall and at that time probably weighed about 190 lbs, but by now I was now operating on pure raw adrenaline. Normally it would have taken 30 minutes to make that trek, but I had the van's accelerator to the floorboard. I didn't care if a sheriffs car stopped me or not and if they did I'd have an escort once they saw all of the blood on Jean. The Gods are cruel because I thought how lucky I was that each of the traffic lights was green as I raced through them at the maximum speed I could get out of the van. I made the trip in something just over 15 minutes. Sliding up to to the emergency room entrance I noticed Dr. Barnes standing outside the door alongside a gurney. Suddenly the doors opened and a team of doctors and nurses boiled out of the door, lifted my wife onto the gurney, strapped her down, and headed into the emergency room at top speed. After parking the van I went into the emergency room and walked over to the desk to fill out a myriad of forms. In what was a very short period of time, probably no more then 10 minutes, Dr. Barnes came into the room and asked me to follow him. We entered a room where I found my wife sitting on the table. The good doctor explained that they were having some problems as my wife was somewhat vague in her responses, her pulse rate was at a dangerously low level and they were unable to extract a blood sample. She was also resisting any efforts to make the necessary tests and they thought my presence might be useful. My presence was not useful as my wife didn't even recognize me! Waltzing With Jean She was now in her own world, wherever that world was. It was as if she was on drugs. Her movements were made in slow motion, her eyes didn't focus, she was unable to process any request, and she was almost totally lethargic about everything. Since my presence was not useful I was asked to retire to the waiting room. After perhaps an hour Dr. Barnes entered the waiting room to inform me that they had finally been able to extract a blood sample and that her white corpuscle count was dangerously low. Because of all of her symptoms they needed to operate NOW to which I readily agreed. While they prepared to operate I tried to get some sleep as this was going to be a long night, but once again sleep escaped me so I read some very old magazines, walked and paced, and took an occasional trip outside to smoke my pipe. About 4:00 in the morning Dr. Barnes came into the waiting room to inform me that the operation had been completed and that the next three or four hours were going to tell the story. Upon query he told me that they'd found the stitches ripped on her lower bowel resection and blood and bodily waste in the cavity around the tear. He wouldn't speculate further as the tests were still not back from the lab. Shortly after 7:00 Dr. Barnes again re-entered the waiting room and sitting me down, informed me that my wife was going to die. She'd passed into a coma and would never again wake up. The tests had just come back from the lab and the fecal matter, mixing with the blood had allowed her blood to become contaminated. It had spread through her system and finally to her brain, which explained her strange behavior when she'd been admitted. If you want the medical terms they were listed on the death certificate as Sepsis/Peritonitis/Ovarian Carcinoma. If you looked at the death certificate a little closer the time from the onset of Peritonitis to her death from Sepsis was 18 hours, Some decisions had to be made and once they were taken care of Dr. Barnes and I went up to the Critical Care Unit to see my now comatose wife. I held her hand as I asked the doctor how long before the end to which he replied anywhere from 3 to 12 hours. Noticing the phone I asked if I could call my son and he nodded in the affirmative, so I called John and told him he was needed at the hospital and why. Finally I asked Dr. Barnes if he thought that I would have time to go home and get the dogs fed and let them run while I took a quick shower, to which he replied that he thought so but if not at least my son would be with her. Heading home it dawned on me that she had not received the last rites of the Catholic Church so as soon as I entered the house I called a friend of mine who was a lay leader in the church, explained the situation, and told him that time was of the essence. He told me it would be taken care of immediately and expressed his regrets. I'd fed Gunner and Bosun, showered, and was just closing the front door when the phone rang. It was my son informing me that Jean had died. I asked him to request that Dr. Barnes arrange to not have Jean's body moved to the morgue until I got there. I rushed back into town to see my wife for the last time. Again my mind was a jumble of thoughts about the things that would now need to be done in making preparations to put my wife away. As I held her still warm hand and brushed her face Dr. Barnes asked if the hospital could do a partial autopsy. I replied yes but only a limited one to verify the cause of death to which he agreed. He made a couple of calls and informed me that the autopsy would be done on Friday and the body released as soon as it was completed. I gave him the name of the funeral home that would receive the body and that I'd be heading over there to make arrangements. Noticing the rosary laying on her breast I asked Dr. Barnes if he could make arrangements for the rosary to remain with the body and again he agreed. I shook hands with Dr. Barnes and thanked him for everything he'd done for Jean and me, to which he replied, "Master Chief, I'm just glad I was able to help you and to be there for Jean in her troubles. Right now you're in shock, but sooner or later that will pass, and you'll go through a whole range of emotions. When that happens consider this; I've read the paperwork from the UW Medical Center and their prognosis. At least this way your wife didn't linger, nor did she suffer, and you may wish to consider that as the only blessing in this sad chain of events." We'd chosen Dr. Robert Barnes to be our family physician shortly after our arrival in Washington. One of the reasons we'd chosen him was that he had been a Navy doctor for many years. For some reason it tickled his fancy to have a Master Chief USN (Retired) as one of his patients and to him I was always Master Chief. As he left to make arrangements at the nurses station, I hugged my son as he left to get to classes at the university. The room was suddenly very quiet as I kissed my wife's cheek and said goodbye for the last time. I made all of the arrangements at the funeral home except for the date for the memorial service. Nick, the director walked me through a long check list of things that needed to be done and gave me several check lists that covered all of the things that needed to be done for the government, insurance co., etc. I told Nick I'd give him a date as soon as I made some phone calls. The funeral director and I were acquaintances as I'd helped to conduct funeral services for my lodge at his funeral home many times over the years. I'd done all that I could do in town so I headed home to call all my sisters and the various members of my family. I called Eliza (Liz) first and she asked me to hold off on the service until she could check on flights and flight times. I told her that it looked like the earliest the service could be held would be Tuesday the 21st. She promised to get back to me as soon as possible. The rest of the two families were notified and all expressed their shock, sorrow, and everyone extended condolences. I finally had a chance to sit with a cup of coffee and my pipe when a thought struck me. I picked up the phone and called Rev. George Peters. After conveying the sad news to him I asked if he would conduct the services, to which he replied that he'd be honored and that Jean had also made that request right after her first operation "just in case." After supper I got a call from Liz informing me that she and her daughter, Eileen, would be flying into Vancouver, B. C. Int. Airport early Saturday morning. She said they'd like to stay until late Friday or early Saturday. I told her they could stay as long as they wanted to, but she said she had to be back at work the Monday after Thanksgiving. By now night had fallen and I found myself listening to tapes in the tape deck as I sat in my chair, the dogs sleeping against my legs, sipping a whiskey and ginger ale, smoking my pipe, with my thoughts rambling here and there. The dogs had been rather subdued when I got home because their mistress wasn't in bed for them to cuddle up next to, and I'd bet all that I owned they knew she wasn't coming home because for the next couple of weeks they wouldn't leave me alone while I was home. They stuck to me like velcro. I made another drink, changed the tape, and sat down to my thoughts. Why wasn't I sitting here with the tears rolling down my cheeks? I wasn't feeling sorrow, anger nor any other feeling. I was totally devoid of any emotion whatsoever. I didn't think I was in shock because I remember shock from the time I took off the tip of my finger with my miter saw a couple of years earlier, unless there are different kinds of shock. In fact, as I sat there and scratched the dogs with my stocking clad feet, I didn't even feel the warmth and joy my two black furry friends normally bring to me. It was as if all of my emotions had been stuffed into the freezer and frozen to a solid lump of ice. I'd been living on adrenaline for a long period of time and my tank was now on empty, so I shut everything off to head for bed with the two dogs staying right alongside of me. In the days and months ahead I was to find out just how badly my emotional system had been affected. Over the next several days I didn't have much time to think until well into the wee hours. There were chores to be done around the house, My routine duties (I was the Secretary of several organizations), plus the shopping and stocking of food for Liz and Eileen, and trips here and there to get the necessary things accomplished to lay my wife's ashes in the ground. All the time I was also running to answer the phone calls from well-wishers who'd seen Jean's Obit in the morning paper. Each evening I'd resume my seat in the chair with the music playing, a drink close by, my pipe on hand, and the dogs curled up around my feet. My thoughts dwelt more and more on my married life with Jean, but it was like viewing and old silent movie. There were the scenes passing before me, but no sounds, no emotion, no subtitles. A one dimensional story in black and white. Saturday morning I got into the van and drove over to Blaine, Wa. to cross through Canadian Customs and Immigration on my way to Vancouver Int. Airport to pick up Liz and Eileen (Elle). Everything went smoothly and I was able to get to the airport, park the van, and be at the gate about 20 minutes before their flight landed. It had been years since I'd seen Liz. She was a young lady at the time. But I would have no problem recognizing her as she had sent reams of family photos to us over the years. I'd also have no problem recognizing my niece, though I'd never met her. After a short wait I saw them pass through the gate into the waiting room. They saw me at about the same time and quickly headed my way. They each hugged me, kissed me on a cheek, one on the left, the other on the right. One saying, "hello Ron," the other, "hello Uncle Ron." After a long hug, we broke apart and looked each other over. Liz was as short as I remembered her, about 5'1" hair now graying, some lines around her eyes, and like Jean and I, she'd put on some weight over the years. Elle on the other hand was a very beautiful young woman. she was probably 5'9" or 10" (from her father, a bear of a man), slim, long black hair running down to her waist. She had grown into a woman who could be a heart breaker if she so chose. There was something about the way she walked and carried herself, and her voice that seemed familiar but I couldn't say why. Her mother on the other hand had the typical tone and accent of a New Yorker and had no trouble being heard in a hurricane if she wished it so. They headed down to get their luggage while I left to get the van and meet them at the baggage pickup. Once we got it all loaded I headed back down to Blaine to cross back into the US. Once we cleared US Customs I pointed the van to the East and home. The trip home took a little over an hour, and although we talked the whole way home, the ladies were turning their heads this way and that taking in the scenery of the Pacific North West for the first time. It crossed my mind that they'd never seen so many Western Red Cedar Trees. Out here they grow into some very large and magnificent trees. Some of the old growth trees will top 100' and have a diameter 8 or 10 feet and more. I'd purposely went out of my way to let them view another sight if it wasn't covered in clouds. We were lucky and as I drove down the road Mt Baker came into view. 10,000 + feet of snow covered volcano. When I say snow covered we're not talking about a few feet of the stuff. A few years ago Mt Baker was entered into the record books for the deepest snow fall in the world in one season. All of the above was one of the big reasons Jean and I had bought our 5 acre lot and moved up here after we retired from the Navy. I finally pulled into the driveway and parked the van next to the pole barn. I told the ladies to leave their bags for now and I'd put up a pot of coffee as it would give them a chance to stretch their legs. When I unlocked the front door two tornados of black fur tore out of the house to greet our visitors. In 30 seconds flat I'd lost my Labs to Elle. They simply fell in love with her and for the rest of the stay they were by her side, in her lap, or curled up next to her in bed. Liz told me later that Elle had the same effect on every critter that came her way. While we were sitting at the dining room table sipping coffee, smoking, and chatting, I informed them that John would be out for supper and asked them what they wanted to eat. Their reply was to not make a big bother, which was about what I'd expected. I told them I'd cooked ahead and I laid out a list and asked them to pick the meal. Liz rose to stretch her legs and turning around noticed the large "shadow box" on the wall. She walked over for a closer look. Jean had told her about it but she'd never seen it before. The box itself was over two-and-a-half feet tall and four feet wide. Glued to the back of the box was a map of the United States There were large-headed brass upholstery pins high lighting each place we'd been stationed. On the right side there was a statue about 10" high of a sailor in his dress blues with his hands stuffed into his peacoat pockets. It is called "The Lone Sailor." On the left is this same sailor several years later and he is standing there kissing and hugging his wife after a long separation with his son hugging him around his waist. It is simply called, "The Home Coming." Jean had wanted those two statues ever since she'd learned of their existence. I'd bought them as a present to her but the problem was how to display them. That was when I'd devised the "shadow box." The hard part was to keep it a secret as I built it. After I'd built it it looked rather bare in the center, so after some thought I purchased a large picture frame and turning to my computer and printer I made up a large document. Since the largest document my printer could handle was legal size, I carefully taped the pages together and hied myself off to a blue print shop where they produced it as a single document. The headline said, "Memories are made of These . ." Below that was a paragraph dedicated to each place we'd been stationed at or lived in, followed by perhaps a dozen names or short phrases reminding us of the events and people that had shaped our married life. I think the first line was the one that got to her when I presented it to her. It simply said, "I left you a stranger in a strange land." Lord knows I'd done that often enough in our career as I parked her in a strange town while I left to go to school, a new duty station, or find a ship somewhere in the world. At the bottom was a phrase that reminded her of our love of dancing and which was to come to haunt me in the very near future. It said, "We've had a great 30 year waltz, and if your willing, we'll dance together as long as the band plays and the music lasts." Lining the perimeter of the map were photos from the family album over our 30+ years (at the time of the presentation) that high-lighted our life in ways I'd hoped were pleasing to her. I snuck it into the lodge hall, and the last night of my several years as Master of the lodge, I'd had her escorted to the Altar while several of the Brethren went out to bring it into the lodge room and place it behind her. I moved down to stand beside her as I turned her towards it, they unveiled it. She took one look at it it and totally lost it. Grabbing me and hugging me, she put her head on my shoulder and sobbed with what I hoped were tears of joy. As Liz continued to look at the shadow box Elle moved alongside her. As they both gazed at it they turned to each other, hugged, and the tears flowed from each of these two dear ladies eyes. Before them was mounted over 30 years of the history of their dear sister and aunt and they were visibly emotionally moved. John made his appearance as soon as classes were over and we four sat around talking until it was time to get supper started. John helped me bring the luggage in so the ladies could unpack and cleanup while I prepared supper. They objected to taking my bed but as it was king size they'd be more comfortable in it. I'd made up the folding bed in the guest room and it would do me fine. As I went down to the kitchen I pointed out that the way Gunner and Bosun were wrapped around Elle they were going to need all of the bed space they could get. After supper the two ladies insisted on doing the dishes. I showed them where everything was and they shooed me out of the kitchen as they went to work. We sat around talking and reminiscing after supper but the ladies were visibly tired and soon talked of bed. John made his excuses to head for home, but I reminded him that tomorrow was Sunday and as he didn't have to go to school he could throw a camping mattress down in the dining room and climb into his sleeping bag. both of which were stored up in the guest room. I woke up Sunday morning to the smell of coffee being brewed, and the sound and smell of bacon frying. I could have predicted that if I'd thought about it. Liz was going to make sure that she contributed during her stay as that was her way. After breakfast we sat in the living room watching the football games. Liz is an avid fan of any team from New York and the Canadian Stations had a Giant's game on that Sunday so we had a few hours to just relax and enjoy the moment. About 2:00 the phone rang. It was Rev. Peters wanting to know if he could stop by to gather some information to round out the memorial service. I agreed and extended an invitation for him to bring his wife. He declined that part of the invitation as she was already committed, but he would inform her of the invitation. George arrived around 3:30 and we all gathered around the dining room table over several cups of coffee to help him fill in the blanks in his memorial to Jean. Having accomplished his mission George departed, and it was now time to prepare for dinner. Following the meal John took off as he had some studying to do. There not being much on TV I put a tape on and we settled in around the table to gab. naturally the largest portion of the conversation that night was about Jean. Before the ladies retired to bed I received several surprises. I told the two of them my version of how Jean and I met. I was a young 3rd class petty officer stationed aboard an old WWII destroyer in 1960. The ship was part of a task force that Summer training Midshipman from The Naval Academy. We pulled into New York for liberty over the Labor Day weekend. Not having to stay aboard for duty I headed out to play sailor. After a whole bunch of hours in one bar or another, several of us heard about a dance at the YMCA sponsored by Cardinal Spellman and the CYO. Figuring there might be some fine young sweet things we took a cab to the "Y" and sure enough there were a lot of sweet young girls there. However most of them were too young for my taste. I did, however. see two ladies, probably about my age. I asked one of them to dance and she replied in the affirmative. During the dance she mentioned her husband in Florida. That put the end to that. When the dance ended, the band immediately broke into a waltz. so I asked the other lady if she cared to dance and she acquiesced. When she stood I got a nice surprise. I'm 5'7" tall and when she stood up we were nose to nose. Jean had long dark brown hair. She was wearing a lilac cocktail dress and low heels. As I looked at her face I looked into the bluest eyes I've ever seen. Her hand was warm and soft in my own. She turned to the dance floor and as she walked slightly in front of me I was really impressed. This was a woman who knew who she was and was comfortable with it. She held her head high, her shoulders square, and she put one foot in front of the other, toes pointing straight ahead as she glided to the dance floor. Waltzing With Jean She turned to move into my arms and I have to say that we fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. I'm a good dancer, and I've done a lot of it, but that lady matched me step for step. There was not the awkwardness of two people trying to figure what the other was going to do. It was almost as if our minds melded. We danced and talked, talked and danced. When the dance at the "Y" shut down we headed up to 86th St. to the Tuxedo Club and danced and talked some more. After that we walked across the street to Die Lorelei to continue our dancing and talking. Finally in the wee hours of the morning Jean felt that she'd had enough for one night so I offered to walk her home. She told me she lived downtown and it would be best to grab a bus. I didn't want the night to end so I suggested that we walk awhile which she quickly agreed to. We walked down to 40th St. before my legs gave out and we finished the trip to her apartment aboard NY Transit's finest. At the front step to her apartment we kissed and then we kissed some more. Being a sailor I decided to move things along (Hey, it's one of the first laws of the sea). Jean very quickly disabused me of that notion. I didn't fight it because this was something special and I was going to take my time. I walked her to the door of her apartment to make sure she was safely inside. We kissed a couple more times and I invited her to come down to the ship on Saturday for a personal tour. She agreed and I explained how to avoid the long lines of visitors and wished her sweet dreams. Liz interrupted me at this point. She asked me if I knew what Jean did after I'd left, to which I replied with a shake of my head. Continuing on Liz said Jean walked into the bedroom, shook her awake, and told her she'd just met the man she was going to marry. That statement flabbergasted me as I'd never heard it before and said so. Liz continued on by informing Elle and I that each night of that weekend when I brought her home she would wake her to tell Liz she was surer then ever I was the one. Her statements would have been one hell of an ego booster under other circumstances. By now Liz had the bit between her teeth and said that she would bet the farm I'd never heard the next one she was going to mention. I told her to press on. Liz asked if I remember those 5 years during the Vietnam War when I was gone more often then I was home? I nodded, and she continued saying that when Jean got home from seeing the ship off she'd move my ashtray and pipes into the bedroom to her night stand (I would not smoke in the bedroom because of the possibility of a fire) Next she'd gather up my unwashed skivvy shirts and robe. The robe lay next to her on the bed and she'd wear my skivvy shirts to bed until I returned. I hadn't a clue. During this conversation someone mentioned, and I'm not sure who; "To men clothes are something you wear. To women clothes are also memories." The ladies, and the dogs made their goodnights shortly thereafter leaving me to my thoughts and usual nightly vigil. I poured myself a brandy preparing to sit and listen to the taped music, but my attention was again drawn to the bottom lines on the shadow box now embedded in my mind. In a few seconds the answer came to me; The band had stopped playing and the dance was over! As I sat listening to the music my mind came back again and again to that one thought, but I had no answer on how to address it. Finally I got tired of muddied thoughts without resolution, shut everything off and went to bed. Monday was a shopping day. John informed us before he left Sunday evening that he had to study for a couple of exams so he wouldn't be out on Monday. The ladies needed some personal items and I'd forgot to get some things for Thanksgiving Dinner so we spent the day in shopping and looking. During the day the question would pop in and out of my mind about addressing my problem. It would appear and disappear with no resolution. After supper we again sat around the table chatting. Something had bothered me over the years and I just had to ask: "Liz, over the years you and Jean would both call each other when there was an emergency. I remember at least a half dozen times that you called in the middle of the night to find out what was wrong and I can also remember Jean waking up because something was wrong with you and she needed to know what it was, How and why?" Liz hesitated a little before she answered. She said there was some kind of an affinity between her and Jean. She couldn't explain it but it was there. It was a feeling or understanding that transcended empathy, and other then that she couldn't explain it, it simply was. She further explained that her mother had it in a minor way, but her aunt didn't. She and Jean had it, but their other three sisters didn't. Elle had it, but her other daughter Eve didn't. It simply was. I told her that that was a wonderful gift and her response was short and terse. "It's not really that much of a blessing as it occurs almost always during times of trouble and very seldom during times of joy." She added that she had a suspicion that that gift or whatever it was was the reason Elle had such an effect on animals, but she couldn't prove it. A thought popped into my head and I had to ask, "With this ability how come you didn't know that Jean was dying?" Liz said she'd mulled that over and over again on the flight, but she hadn't come up with an explanation until she'd read the death certificate and I'd explained Jean's last hours. Liz continued on, "The only explanation that makes sense is that her brain was being destroyed and she'd lost all of her ability to think, talk, or communicate. Our link was broken." The ladies knew that the next day would be grueling so they gathered up the dogs and headed to bed, leaving me to man the fort. As usual I sat there in my chair sipping my brandy, listening to the music and smoking my pipe when the solution to my problem flashed through my mind like a bolt of lightning. I sat down at the computer and I began to type. I probably started the project about 9:00 and it was sometime between 3:00 and 4:00 in the morning when I'd completed my task. Ode To Jean The hall is dark, the band has laid away their tools of joy, No light gleams from mirror'd ball to swirl around the floor, The dance has ended for you and I, I must with sadness let you go, No longer does the music play, night descends and the dance is oe'r. For thirty years, nay more, the band played as we danced the night away, In the swirl of bodies gliding across the shiny floor, We danced as though we were alone, for truth to tell we paid no heed, But with sadness I must let you go, the band has quit, the dance is oe'r. Though the dance is oe'r and the years have so swiftly passed us by, I asked if you'd like to dance, and with shy smile you said yes, Your blue eyes laughing, as hand in hand we walked across the floor, And for the first time to my chest your body I then pressed. Summer heat gave way to warmth of night as I held you years ago, We danced the night away, with the joy of being just we two, It seemed for all time with you in my arms I was now complete, As we danced, I prayed to each other we'd be ever true. Smile lines etched themselves around your eyes of azure blue, As the night moved on, your hair turned to soft swirls of gray, I paid graying hair and small lines small heed, and cared for nought, I held you in my arms with light care as we danced the night away. If I sometimes stepped upon your toe or missed a beat, You shrugged it off with rare good grace and gentle smile, In you my love, dwelt the quiet love and patience of the saints, holding me tight you forgave my awkward gate and rude style. The years have passed us by and the fiddlers tune we now must pay, I know that we again will meet to carry on and join once more, But the fogs of night around us swirl as your last leave you take, My love for just awhile, the band has quit, the dance is oe'r. Ron Wachuka, 21 November, 1995 Dedicated to my wife Jean for whom the dance ended on 16 November, 1995 I printed three copies of the poem, put them in envelopes and wrote Liz on one, Elle on another, and the third I put where I'd have it handy in the morning. Having accomplished my task I shut everything down and went to bed. The next morning we all got up, cleaned up, dressed and headed to the hall for the memorial service. None of us felt like making breakfast and I knew from past experience there would be plenty to eat after the services were finished. The wives and the ladies of the "Star" would see to that. The service was packed and as we sat and waited for it to start Liz turned to her daughter and asked her what she was feeling. Elle replied that she couldn't feel one negative thought or emotion, only sadness and love. Liz turned to me and taking hold of my hand remarked that if Jean was here she'd say, "Isn't it wonderful that all of these people came for you, never realizing it's because of their respect and love for her that they're here." A remark to which I heartily agreed. The service proceeded on as did the grave side service. We returned to the hall and gorged ourselves on the bounty put out by the ladies. The four of us made sure that we mingled with what we each thought of as our guests for several hours, extending a hand shake, a hug, a few words, passing on to the next group to do it all over again. My hand was sore from shaking so many hands and I'd been hugged and kissed on the cheek by so many ladies I thought my ribs were permanently bruised and my cheeks permanently tattooed with various shades of lipstick. I'd also been told in no uncertain terms that Thanksgiving dinner was on them and we were not to make an effort to cook under threat of dire consequence. Finally, as the guests were leaving, the ladies ordered us to leave as they had the cleanup in hand. So we all climbed into the van and headed for home. That afternoon and into the early evening the talk around the table was rather subdued. Finally Liz decided that we needed to eat something so she grabbed the phone and phonebook to order a couple of pizza's. Having placed her order she put some money into John's hand and told him to go pick it up. After John made his exit I put several bottles of wine into the fridge to chill, my thought being we all needed this. It was a rather pleasant, but quiet evening, John left because of his class schedule, and the ladies were visibly tired, worn out from the days activities, so they soon left for bed with Gunner and Bosun following close behind. The next morning after breakfast was over the dishes done, and the coffee cups refilled, we sat down to plan the day. I gave Liz and Elle their envelopes. With puzzled expressions they opened them and began to read. I think they both got through the first stanza when they each started to cry but they continued on to the end. Elle got up from her seat, walked to her mother, and threw her arms around her shoulder as they both continued to cry. I stepped into the kitchen to get the box of tissue and put it on the table next to them. It was probably 5 or 6 minutes before they were able to regain their composure. Elle reached across the table to retrieve her coffee and sat next to her mother. They were holding hands when Liz looked at me and asked, "When?" I explained my problem with the last line on the shadow box and that last night I needed to address it so I wrote the poem. She asked me how long it took and I told her I'd got to bed about 4:00, so it probably took about 6 or 7 hours and half a bottle of Brandy. I gave her the 3rd envelope and told her it was for Eve. We sat for a little bit while they reread the poem. in a few moments I rose and asked them to accompany me upstairs. They didn't say anything, just fell in behind me. We entered the bedroom and I stepped to the dresser, opened Jean's jewelry box, and one by one pulled out her necklaces, earrings and other items of jewelry. The pearl necklace and earrings I gave to Elle explaining that Jean had talked about this some time ago and if anything happened what to give to who. "She wanted you to have the pearls," pulling out one of the jade necklaces and the matching earrings I gave them to Liz. "These were intended for you," pulling out the 2nd jade necklace and earrings I passed them to Liz and told her that these were intended for Eve. There were several gold necklaces and earrings that I gave to Liz. Jean had told me to use my judgment about them but they were not to go to her other sisters. Giving the lot to Liz I told her distribute them as she wished after telling her of Jean's proviso. When I was making my annual cruises to the Western Pacific (WesPac) we would always get a week in Hong Kong and several trips to Yokosuka, Japan to replenish our supplies. In each place I'd buy a personal gift for Jean like the pearl necklace and matching earrings and the jade sets. I also bought her our china set one year and other things that hopefully would make a WesPac Widow happy on her husbands return. I asked them if they wanted any of Jean's perfume and cologne. Elle opened the box which contained Jean's favorite scent, Chloe', inhaled the scent and and asked me if she could have it. I told them to take anything of Jeans they fancied except her rings. I would keep those. For the next several hours they puttered through the drawers taking this and putting that back. It seems callous to get rid of Jean's personal things so soon after her burial, but the things they took would be put to good loving use and eventually I'd have to bag up everything else and donate it to some group that didn't know Jean and little cared. So that they could pack all of the stuff back to New York I gave them two suitcases to put it all in. By now lunch was approaching so the ladies made a light lunch after which Elle asked if she could look through the photo album. I laughed and told her there were a lot of albums. I broke out the ones that started with Jean and I, when Liz broke in and said, "not so fast Buster. We also want the ones of you growing up." I demurred but that proved to be an exercise in futility so I eventually handed those over as well. I spent the rest of the afternoon explaining the pictures to each of them. Mike walked in from school to find us going through all of the photo albums. He took a bad ribbing from Liz and Elle when we got to the ones he was in as a little tyke, especially the picture of him kissing a young girl. At the time they were both about 5 or 6. That evening the ladies stayed up a little later then normal going through the last of the albums. We gabbed about nothing in particular and they went to bed, taking Bosun and Gunner with them. Was I ever going to get my dogs back? Mike was tired from the stress of studying and taking several exams so he crashed in the dining room. I was back to my lonely vigil but at least I'd settled one of my problems. Thanksgiving morning came and from about 9:00 to Noon our driveway was awash in vehicles. Neighbors, friends Lodge Brethren and their ladies and the ladies of the "Star" dropping off goodies for a perfect meal. Now ordinarily you'd get 10 salads 200 biscuits and something else would be missing. Someone had planned this very carefully. A turkey arrived and one ham. A salad arrived and perhaps several dozen home baked rolls. One bowl of mashed potatoes and two different kinds of dressing. There were two kinds of gravy. Even dessert was delivered as though equally well planned as there were two different kinds of pie and two different kinds of ice cream. There was enough to feed an army but when invited all of our friends declined to break bread as they had to get back to their families. I had my suspicions about who organized this act of loving generosity but I bit my tongue because if my suspicions were true, to make a fuss or offer thanks would only embarrass he and his good lady. The only thing that went awry occurred after eating our delicious and lovingly prepared meal when we set the pies on the table, to be eaten later after our stomaches had settled. We sat down in the living room to watch the end of a football game when a crashing sound in the dining room alerted us to the fact that something was amiss. Rushing into the dining room we discovered Bosun and Gunner with their front paws on a bench seat gobbling down the pumpkin pie and laying in a blue puddle on the floor was the raisin pie. I immediately hollered, "Bosun down, Gunner down. Bosun sit, Gunner sit!" They quickly responded but there was a problem. They were smiling, licking their chops, and their tails were wagging at ninety knots. Those two scamps had certainly enjoyed themselves. Ordinarily I would have taken great pleasure in smacking their butts with a newspaper, but it wasn't in me that night, so they got a reprieve. We enjoyed ice cream for dessert. Friday was a day of discovery as John and I drove the ladies around the county to this place or that so that they could behold the beauty of Whatcom County. Late in the afternoon it was necessary that we return home so that the ladies could pack. Saturday morning we delivered Liz and Elle to Vancouver Int. Airport, dropping them and John off at their airline so he could help them with their luggage while I parked the van. After they checked themselves in we said our goodbyes with hugs and kisses and John and I gave them each a final wave as they left us to catch their flight. The last words Liz said kind of cheered me up. She said that she and Elle, and perhaps Eve too would be back for a visit sometime when they could see the Pacific NW in all of its green finery. As they walked away I looked at Elle and I watched the way she moved. I was looking at Jean 30 years ago. Her walk, her, talk, was the spitting image of her aunt, my beloved. Epilogue Returning home I greeted the dogs who kept sniffing around the van trying to find Elle. Not finding her they came to me for comfort. I had my dogs back anyway. For almost a year I was a walking zombie. I had to force myself to get up, to eat, to take care of my chores, and to attend to my secretarial duties. I'm sorry to confess that I didn't perform much of the forgoing in any way that I would normally call satisfactory. I didn't hurt, nor did I have any other emotion whatsoever. Later, on reflection, after I started healing I began to suspect that I'd had a bad case of depression and I had totally turned everything inward to keep out the hurt, loneliness, and sense of loss. Almost a year later the dam broke and the healing began through a set of ordinary circumstances combining in an unusual way: I was sitting at the computer sipping a whisky (a habit that I'd abused heavily the past year), I'd put a tape in the VCR and began to get some work done. The tape was one of a series I'd made for Jean and I. I'd tape one of her favorite songs, then one of mine and so on. It made driving or sitting at home listening very pleasurable for both of us. The tape was playing softly in the background and for some reason I opened my writing folder. My attention was drawn to the poem I'd written the night before Jean's memorial service. I opened the poem up and began to read it again. The song playing was one of my favorites by Stonewall Jackson entitled "Don't Be Angry." It is truly a fine love song. The combination of the song, the poem, and perhaps the whiskey made my eyes water so that I began having problems focusing on the monitor screen. I removed my glasses to wipe my eyes when the song ended. The next song to play was a song by Rita MacNeil titled "I'll Accept the Rose." This was Jeans great all time favorite. Waltzing With Jean As I focused on the poem again I found myself crying and sobbing, huge floods of tears rolling down my cheeks. Suddenly a tidal wave of emotions washed over me, loneliness, love, sorrow, regret. All of the feelings I'd blocked out for the past year hit me with such a force that if I'd been standing it would have driven me to my knees. When the song ended I rewound the tape to again hear the strains of Stonewall Jackson and Rita MacNeil as they sang. The emotions still swirled within me but as I closed my eyes a movie in full color began to play before me. Jean and I were dancing up and down the hallway as we'd done so many times before over the past many years. I was holding my bride once again and I could feel the love I had for her, the warmth within me in a way I hadn't felt for the past year. When Rita's song finished the movie vanished. I knew now that I was going to miss her, but that I was also going to heal. It might take a long time, but it would happen I cried myself back to normalcy for almost a year as I sat and listened to those tapes each night. My drinking went back down to normal levels, and I slowly began to pick up the pace in my work ethic. I also began to understand the gifts Jean had given me over the years. My rage and anger towards John Q. Citizen for their treatment and disdain for the military personal during and after the war in 'Nam had almost destroyed me. I hated almost everyone who wasn't in a uniform. The only exceptions were personal family and my fraternal family. Moving up to Washington started the change because my neighbors, newly found friends, and the fraternal family honored me with friendship and respect. But it was Jeans patience, love, and kindness, that turned it around. She weathered my fits of rage with love and devotion until she'd finally and forever tamed her sailor. There are many virtues in life, and by her actions I slowly began to accept them as a part of my life. I will never measure up to her and how she lived her life, but she left me with a high set of personal standards that gave me a goal to work towards. My love: I'm so grateful that I asked you to dance with me all those many years ago and that you so graciously accepted. I'm ecstatic that you felt I was the man you wanted to share your life with. I thank you for your willingness to live with my imperfections, never spoken, commented upon, nor acted upon by you. Yes I'm lonely at times. Yes I miss you. Yet I know that as I journey down the road of life to finally pass beyond that bourne from which no traveller returns we'll meet to the tunes of the band, to join in a waltz that will continue until time shall be no more. -Over the years I've reread the poem and I've found places where I'd do it a little differently, change a word or phrase, but I'll live with what I wrote on that night before I buried my wife. There are poets who will read it and cringe. There are literary experts who will snicker and verbally flay me alive, so be it.- -I gave a copy of it to an old friend, an ordained minister and a man of letters in several disciplines, a very learned man, whose comment was that it was definitely a 19 hanky job, but he'd observed that same dark trait in some of my other work.- sign me; A Horny 'ol Sailor 30-