A quickie with Jean
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Waltzing With Jean free porn video
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-in-law 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. Probl
ems, 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: Wed
nesday 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!
Lesley
- 10.03.2022
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