During Bette’s last, of three, hospitalization several doctors said over the course of the five weeks,

“Your wife is very sick.”

I said.

“I know. The previous two hospitalizations she was very sick. She rallied. Bette came home.”

About a week before Bette passed away it was said again and for the last time.

[What I am writing now is in brackets because the words weren’t spoken. In my mind I said ‘You don’t have to stare because that would be awkward but even a brief look into my eyes and you can see the child glad to have left behind the home bound despondent middle aged man to go outside with fervor and play with my girl, Bette. We played for eighteen years with no one having to call us in until now. And you think I have the courage to ask why; to ask if it’s because she is dying? I don’t.’]

Three days before Bette passed away ‘palliative care’ was brought up. It was too late. Bette’s mind was compromised and to tell her she was dying would have been cruelty reserved for abject evil. On the second day she lost consciousness and remained that way.

The first anniversary of Bette’s death will be in a couple days and I continue to wonder about death bed conversations and would we have made them ‘work’? I believe so. Of course so many words floating in a well of tears eager to be saved and placed on fertile soil where they will take root, grow and nurture my soul.

It never happened and the words of imagination drown without my Dearest Bette to have spoken them.