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Wow, what an amazing breakthrough. You just keep remembering all of those wonderful things your mom told you about yourself, because they're true. Hugs,

Hi everyone, I'd like to ask for special prayers for nyka69 and her sweetheart husband. They're in a real rough patch right now. She's as strong as always and doing an amazing job. Please say a special prayer. Hugs,

Rochelle, What a beautiful thing to do for your wedding. I would say absolutely include that it's in loving memory of your mom. Congratulations on your wedding.

I know I'm coming into this topic late in the game. As I was reading it, I felt really sad. Partly because of what you experienced, Kelly. I can only imagine -- especially since you had just shared your pain in what was supposed to be a supportive environment. But partly because I think I've been guilty of categorizing grief. I still have my parents. They're both turning 70 next year. They've each had some health issues (including prostate cancer with my dad), but are "young" 70-year-olds in my opinion. I think I've been guilty of taking them for granted. They've always been there, right? I think early in my grieving posts here I said that I always thought Bill would be with me to help me when I did lose my parents. Until recently I hadn't flipped that around to realize that those who lose their parents won't have them there to help them through other losses in their lives as only a parent can. My parents came with me to England and Spain with Bill's ashes. I so appreciated it. But I appreciate it more now that I'm home and really thinking about it. It wasn't an easy trip for them, but they did it for me. I literally just received an email from a friend that her father passed away from cancer this morning. And then I think about my beautiful step-kids who have lost their dad, who was bigger than life and "always there" for them. I'm so sorry for all of you who have lost your parents. You have helped me value mine more today. If in my own grief I have ever minimized the loss of a parent (or any other loss), I'm terribly sorry. Much love,

I'm so sorry for your deep loss.

I'm so sorry for you and your family. How wonderful that you're able to see the blessings of the love you all felt.

Congratulations Nick! How proud your mom is looking at her beautiful granddaughter even before she's born!

I had a close family friend who went home one day to the strong smell of roses shortly after her mother died. I too thought I smelled cigarette smoke in the kitchen one day about three weeks ago, but then decided I was imagining it. Maybe not...

Thanks everyone. Ned, thanks for pointing out something I knew deep inside. No ceremony has to mean "goodbye." You're right, it's the act of carrying out a wish. A beautiful and meaningful wish. Thank you for that. Hugs to all,

Prayers going up for you Rachel. You're an inspiration. Keep up the fight, but yes, turn your worries to God.

I'm grateful to be home safely after my trip abroad. I'm grateful for my family and friends on both sides of the Atlantic. I'm grateful for you all here.

Jack, I'm so sorry to learn that Cheryl passed. I always appreciated reading her posts, because she was so honest. I also appreciated her getting in touch with me after I lost Bill. I know she fought very hard. I'm so sorry for what you both went through.

I have NO doubt about it!

Hi everyone, I feel like it's been ages since I was here, and I'm just starting to catch up on everyone. Wanted to give you all an update on my trip to England and Spain to scatter Bill's ashes (still have the last third to do here at home). I just returned late last night. In a word, it went as beautifully as it possibly could. The lead-up to it and the first day and a half were excruciating to me. Packing the suitcases, being at the airport, and arriving in England without Bill felt like I was breaking every fundamental law of nature. The first night as I lie alone there, I just wanted to get back on a plane and come home. I'd never felt so far from him since he'd been gone. I cried hard. I know it was equally as hard on my beautiful step-kids and other family members. (What on earth are we all doing together without Bill?) On day two, things started to gel. The initial shock of being together without our Bill turned into us all being close and supporting one another. We scattered the ashes on Saturday. We chose a beautiful woods area where Bill used to spend time with the kids when they were little. There was myself, my parents, Bill's son, daughter, granddaughter, son-in-law, niece, and nephew, as well as the kid's mom and step-dad (who we're very close to). We prayed, some read scripture, we all shared stories of Bill, and encouraged one another. The day was perfectly beautiful and the sun shone through the woods over-head. We all had lunch in a pub close by and shared some more. I think we all really needed this time together more than any of us realized. When I left Tuesday afternoon for Spain, I felt incredibly close to everyone and knew without doubt we were a "forever family." In Spain we were reunited with my sister-in-law and her husband. They had been with us here for weeks and I couldn't have imagined going through those last days without them. We scattered the ashes there on Thursday. We drove up to a spot in the national park there that Bill and I were very familiar with, and we have our pictures there from a few years earlier. The ashes of two very good friends were also scattered in this location. Some good friends of my sister-in-law's joined us as well. This one was less emotional, probably because myself and my parents had been through it in England, and because there weren't all the family members like there were in England. But although a severe storm threatened our day, it held off until that night, so the weather was perfect. We all went to lunch afterwards. My sister-in-law has a little book she likes all of their visitors to sign (they have a lot!). As I signed it the night before we left, I looked back to almost exactly a year earlier when Bill and I had signed the book together. I had forgotten that we had made a plan to come for Easter so I could photograph the beautiful Easter processions the Spanish do. Bill wrote in the book, "see you at Easter!" How quickly our life and plans change. I was anxious to get home. I know the hardest one is yet to come, when a friend flies me over the Mojave dessert to scatter the last third. We will have a dinner with family and friends afterward. I haven't planned it yet. I thought it would be sometime relatively soon. Now I'm not so sure. I don't feel ready. The other two I viewed more for other people and for Bill. This last one will be the "us" portion and I'm dreading it. I'm not ready to say goodbye. I know that's what it's all supposed to symbolize, but I can't say it. I still talk of Bill as if he's coming home. An odd detachment is noticeable when I tell stories, or speak of how he might have responded to some situation we all find ourselves in. I wonder how long that will last. The thing is, I don't really want it to go away, because then it will all be so real. I've missed you all.

I'm grateful for my wonderful neighbors and friends, Megan and Mike, who shared some wine and conversation with me earlier. They saw us through the entire ordeal, and I'm so grateful for them today. I'm also grateful for my "puppy," Mrs. Dickens, who is like living with a very animated human, and keeps the house "alive."

MC, I wish I had even the remotest idea of what might be happening. It's all very mysterious. Prayers that the doctor will shed some new light tomorrow. I'm so sorry.

Aaron, Lovely to see your post! You enjoy that wedding!!! (Not sure about the fish though...)

Hi Deb, Bill had etoposide and carboplatin, so I don't know which one caused his side effects. Mostly, he just felt fatigued. He had a little nausea, but nothing serious. And...lost his hair.

I SO relate to your saying, "I asked if I could call 911." Let me tell you a story. Bill was only admitted to the hospital twice in his cancer journey (apart from the biopsy). The first time was three days after we found out he had brain mets. Prior to that, we felt pretty good still. He had just started lung radiation and we had hope that it would do the trick. He had two days of feeling extra good, eating, etc. I was happy. Then he plummeted. I assumed neurological. He was sick. He was disoriented. Something was very wrong. Did I immediately dial 911? No, I paced around thinking of all the reasons why I hopefully didn't have to. When I finally realized I had to, I kept "asking" him. He kept asking me why I needed to. I finally just did it. Long story short -- the main problem was that he needed a blood transfusion and hydration. It was a horrible night in the hospital, because he so desperately wanted to leave and didn't understand why he had to be there. BUT afterward, he couldn't remember it. He kept asking me about what had happened, how it all went down, etc. No matter how much detail I provided, he never, ever remembered it. That freaked us both out, frankly. Because he seemed lucid. People had visited, etc. I too was terrified of him dying in the hospital because he didn't want that. I did everything to get him out quickly. I was in a complete panic. Knowing what I know now. Hospitals are pretty keen to honor your wishes. If your hubby were to be hospitalized to figure out what's going on, they would let him go if that's what you wanted. I think you probably need to sign some paperwork to give you the authorization. Perhaps that's a conversation you should have. Also, Bill credited me for "saving his life" that time. I think that was perhaps a little dramatic. The point being, he thanked me for it in the end. Even though it was the LAST thing in the world he wanted. In the hospital he kept saying, "don't ever do this to me again." Afterward he kept saying, "thank you so much for having the strength to do that." BIG hugs,

On Monday, Sept. 10 it will be eight weeks since Bill died. I still have a hard time saying or writing or thinking that: Bill died. There's a major sense of it being surreal or temporary. It only occurred to me earlier today that I've had that sense since he first became ill. Never 100% believing it all. Not total denial, but compartmentalized denial, if such a thing exists. I think in some ways it helped us, and in some ways it hurt. I continue to operate compartmentally today -- I no longer know how to go about it any other way. On Wednesday I leave for England and Spain to spread the first two of three lots of Bill's ashes. I'm feeling good about the family aspect of the trip. I think it will bind us together in a new way. I'm no longer nervous about that. But I'm nervous about the reality of the loss hitting us all at once when I arrive without Bill. Will I know how to comfort the kids in their grief? Will they want me to? Will I hold it together? I don't know. I'm also nervous about the very thing I look forward to -- coming home and attempting to slow down. Living in a constant state of distraction and pre-occupation does have its upsides. I still can't believe it's eight weeks.

I've seen that before and the words are beautiful. Thanks for sharing that.

Thank you, Jackie. As always, wonderful, thoughtful words. I'm grateful for my church family, without whom I cannot imagine awaking on a Sunday morning. I'm grateful for their never-ending support, their hugs, their prayers, and their love. I'm grateful for my beautiful niece Brenna who will be staying here with her family at my home to take care of my Mrs. Dickens while I go to England and Spain next week. (So Jackie, should I be grateful that I over-filled the pool and don't know how the heck to pump it out? Oh, okay! I can hear Bill now, "you did that AGAIN?") Hugs to all,

Ned, Thanks for giving us that glimpse of your journey, and the beautiful pictures. And congratulations on your first year -- that's awesome. Many more to come... (But, why must surgeons do that -- the way they deliver news? Bill's did the same...) Aloha to you!

Your mom sounds like a beautiful, strong woman who will be missed greatly. I'm so sorry for your family. Your dad is going to need your support and understanding as he walks this new and unfamiliar path. Remember, we're here when you need us too. Prayers,

Nova, I'm so sorry. It is a heartbreaking situation, all around. We didn't have kids at home, but Bill never wanted his kids or any of his family to come and visit. Not until things took a dramatic turn for the worse. The idea of thinking he was seeing people for the last time was too much. I wonder if that is some of what is happening. Those thoughts are just too much to bear for Harry right now, so he retreats to protect himself. We went through periods of silence too. The hardest would be if I was at work and would call and he wouldn't want to talk at all. I would just imagine him being here alone and get upset. But he used to assure me that it was a choice. He often didn't sleep in bed, even before the cancer made it too uncomfortable to do so. He also assured me that it wasn't because he didn't want to be close to me, it was because he needed that solitude at night. Because that's when the deepest thoughts came. That's when he could cry, pray, sit outside and stare at the night sky, etc. And he needed to do that alone. I didn't like it, but I understood. My approach was typically how "nyka69' described. Try to respect the need for space. However, I don't think the silence was anything close to what you're experiencing. As Liz said, he's probably always been used to being the strong one, taking care of you all, and now he can't. I can't imagine what that must feel like, but it must be dreadful. And then there's the feeling of being the subject of everyone's concern. At certain times, that drove Bill nuts. He just wanted to be normal. So in those moments, he would also avoid phone calls from friends and even family sometimes. I like Liz's idea of asking him to do something for you -- something that he can do, something that he used to do. It was hugely important for Bill to feel useful, and when he didn't, it upset him greatly. That never changed. And perhaps trying to confront it head-on as Rich described, but to try not to be emotional when you do it. And acknowledge, as I'm sure you already do, that you know that you have no idea what he's feeling, emotionally or physically, but that you love him so much and just want to be present with him. And if he really won't talk or listen, perhaps write him a letter to read when he's on his own. Hugs and prayers -- I understand those teary days,