We’d had an especially pleasant trip back home from Zion, Illinois where we’d spent a week for Dorothy’s monthly series of treatments for her cancer. After a week at the hospital it was a pleasure to go home. The four-hour trip was usually somewhat of an ordeal, and we arrived home tired. This time, however, we both felt great and glad to be home. By the next morning Dorothy felt so well that she started calling her friends. She must have called every friend she had, for it seemed that she was on the phone all day.

Her energy carried over until the next day. She seemed to have more pep than at any time since we had been making monthly trips to Zion, north of Chicago. We had been at this thing for about six months.

Despite my high hope of the past two days Dorothy’s energy began to sag during the afternoon. By early evening she couldn’t stay awake. I put her to bed with some difficulty, and I soon followed beside her. I must have slept pretty well, but when I looked at Dorothy she was in the same position as when I put her to bed. And I couldn’t wake her. I followed her ambulance to the hospital and hung around until they put her in a room where I could stay with her. I hoped that she would soon wake up and say something to me but she slept on. I left for meals and came right back, but nurses did not report any wakefulness. While I was home for lunch her second day there I had a call from the hospital. It was my neighbor who had stopped to see Dorothy and reported that she had just died. I found Dorothy’s sister Pat and husband Mike there when I returned. There was little else to do there except to say our goodbyes to Dorothy. She had died because the chemotherapy had destroyed her immune system.

Pat was a great help to me in making funeral arrangements, as were my children (Dorothy’s inherited family). The funeral took place at Market Street Presbyterian Church where we were members. It was a celebration of life. Many of Dorothy’s friends attended. Dick Sheffield, who conducted the service, said that it was the best attended funeral that he had conducted in his 18 years as pastor.

After the burial service my family and I went back to my house. We were talking about all kinds of things, including what I was going to do next. I got an urge to be alone for a little while and went out on my front porch to sit for a while. I had been dry-eyed throughout the ordeal. While I sat reflecting on the past few days I suddenly felt my throat tighten and tears flow from my eyes and down my cheeks. It was only then that I noticed that son David had joined me on the porch. It was then that I said, “I really did love that woman.” And I really meant it.