As she lies dying of cancer, Betty Munn listens to her most intimate thoughts from 60 years ago as her husband, Bill, reads to her from the diaries she kept when they were dating in college. He never knew they existed until he found them buried in a box last summer. Photos by Steve Shelton/Staff

By Tom Corwin
Staff Writer

Lying on her back in her nursing home bed, Betty Munn can look up and see what the cancer is stealing from her.

On the wall across from her bed in Brandon Wilde nursing home is a black-and-white picture of a smiling blonde woman in her 30s, whose perfect teeth are now gone.

There is another framed picture of the children and grandchildren her withered legs won't carry her to visit, and above the picture a faded gray birthday note from 1935 to her soon-to-be husband ``from a little girl who thinks he's wonderful.''

In a chair next to her bed is her husband of 59 years, Bill, leafing through a diary she kept as a girl, the story of their courtship told in meticulous details he never knew, a story he now reads to her a day at a time as they wait for the end.

Across from her bed in Brandon Wilde hangs a black and white picture of a younger Betty Munn in her 30s adorned by a recent Valentine's Day greeting and a bouquet of flowers. Photos by Steve Shelton/Staff

Theirs is a classic American story of a couple who came out of the Depression to raise their children in the suburbs, whose lives revolved around country club dances and children's talent shows. And it will now have the classic American ending as one lies dying of cancer and the other looks for some way to ease the pain.

But the pain she feels now is not from the disease eating away at her colon but from the thought that she won't die as she lived, the mother in constant motion who could do everything, the woman whose dance partner always got a tap on the shoulder.

``I just hate not being able to dance,'' she said, smiling up at Bill as she lies back in the bed, her eyes alight. ``Bill's a beautiful dancer.''

Since August 1995, when doctors discovered the inoperable cancer and gave her less than six months to live, Mrs. Munn has been waiting to die with the help of the Hospice program at St. Joseph Hospital, one of 2,800 programs in the country seeking to give nearly 400,000 patients comfort at the end of their lives.

While doctors and nurses at St. Joseph marvel at her survival, she says she is ready now.

``I've lived more than my time already,'' she said, over the tender protests of her daughter, Kathy Resseguie, who sits nearby. ``There isn't anything I can do so I just don't do anything.''

A single, fluid movement for her nurses, Betty Mun patiently works at folding her blanket for 15 minutes. Photos by Steve Shelton/Staff

As the couple waits out the end together, they relive how it began from a collection of diaries that Bill discovered last summer in their summer home in Michigan, hidden away in a box.

They met at the freshman mixer on Oct. 13, 1933, at Case Western Reserve University in Cleveland.

``Friday the 13th may be unlucky but to me it's a red letter day,'' 18-year-old Betty Munn wrote. ``Bill Munn started rushing me almost right away and kept it up from 4 until 6:15 p.m.''

Bill grins.

``I spotted her right away,'' he said. With 75 to 100 stags standing against the wall, however, boys were cutting in fiercely as he tried to make time with the young blonde. So he organized his fraternity brothers to cut in on her and then let him cut in on them. He asked her to go to the game with him and break the date she has for that night ``but I just can't do that, as much as I like him,'' Betty writes.

He finally gets his date a few pages later.

``We went to see Mae West in I'm No Angel. Bill has an Auburn convertible. We drove with the top down. Smooth. The night air was cold but we were very cozy with the heater on.'' There are other fellas competing for her heart but ``after the show, Bill's more fun to talk to. He's very tall, perfect build and a good dancer, wears his clothes very well and doesn't seem to be stuck on himself.''

Two years after being diagnosed with inoperable colon cancer and given six months to live, Betty Munn continues to wait for her time. Photos by Steve Shelton/Staff

``That's pretty good for the first date,'' Bill says, laughing as he looks up from the lined pages crammed with small writing.

``It's true,'' Betty says. ``I think he is just as attractive now as I did then. He's always been a good-looking man.''

``Thank you, sweetie.''

Her life revolves around Bill's visits, a short time in the morning after her assisted bath, lunch together, then afternoons visiting, listening to Frank Sinatra and reliving their romance.

Betty Munn is fortunate in many ways - she has a loving husband and family, she doesn't have much pain, and she gets constant attention from the nursing staff. Many dying patients, however, don't have that support and can fall into despair, said Russell Moores, medical director of the St. Joseph program. Hospice can allay the two biggest fears dying patients have that might lead them to consider suicide, Dr. Moores said.

``People don't want to live in pain; we can control their pain,'' Dr. Moores said. ``People don't want to die alone, we can take care of that.''

As sister Chris Looze kneels next to the bed of Betty Munn, Bill Munn reflects on a diary passage written some 50 years ago. Photos by Steve Shelton/Staff

And the program offers a third dimension some people might not realize they need.

``Anybody who is going to die has real spiritual needs,'' Dr. Moores said.

Enter Sister Chris Looze, who is jokingly referred to as ``the flying nun'' by fellow Hospice workers because of her hectic schedule. She kneels by the side of Betty's bed and reaches across her, slowly stroking Betty's arm beneath the blanket while she talks softly about peace.

``You're beautiful,'' Sister Chris coos. ``And you're getting more and more beautiful.''

She studies Betty's face closely.

``Do you see people from the next world, like your mom or dad?'' she asks.

Some of Betty Munn's diaries. Though the are five-year diaries, Ms. Munn filled each of them in a year. Photos by Steve Shelton/Staff

``No.''

``It's a peaceful thing, deeply peaceful, not scary at all,'' Sister Chris says, her voice dropping into a low, hypnotic rhythm. ``You just watch for them and listen to them and don't be afraid. And the peace within you deepens and deepens. I've been seeing that peace in your face, and I wonder if you were seeing them.''

``No,'' Betty says. ``I think that would be very interesting.''

``That's how God prepares us for leaving our loved ones,'' Sister Chris says. ``So that we know when we leave here we'll be with our loved ones again.''

God, and love, is all that Robert Fleming can rely on now. Like the Munns, he and his wife, Derralyn, are living his last days in comfort together in an apartment across town from the Munns. Robert, 81, was diagnosed with prostate cancer 10 years ago and though the doctor thought he got it all, the cancer has now spread to his lungs and back. He wears a skin patch that delivers morphine to handle the pain. Gospel music on the radio in his bedroom eases his mind and helps pass the hours.

Even though Derralyn was a home health nurse for many years, she is grateful for the Hospice team that comes by to help with medicine, watching Robert if she has to go out, and making sure they have everything they need.

``I don't know what I'd do without them,'' she says. ``It's like a family atmosphere.''

The Flemings moved to Augusta from Jamaica, N.Y., to be near family in South Carolina and Alabama. Their children come down and visit and it was one of those visits last October that is their low point so far. Robert's son, Malcolm, came down from Philadelphia for Robert's birthday. The next night, the family had to take Malcolm to the hospital. Malcolm, who was 55 years old, survived a few days, long enough to talk to his father, then died from AIDS-related illness, a disease Robert still does not know he had.

``He really had a tough break then,'' Derralyn says, as Robert sits up stiffly in his bed and looks down, then away. ``I think the pain of losing his son was much greater than what he's feeling now.''

Yet they will not talk of death.

``It's just automatic. You live, right? You get up and do what you've got to do,'' Derralyn said. Robert just looks up at the ceiling. ``The Lord keeps me going, gives me strength. I thank the Lord.''

``I don't fight nature,'' Derralyn says. I won't say it's easy, it's not easy. But that's our way, and we have to accept it.''

It is something Betty Munn understands. When her daughter jokes, ``We think she's going to outlive us all,'' Betty shoots back, ``Fat chance. I'll figure out a way between now and then.''

In fact, her 19 months on the program, when the average stay is 45 to 60 days, is a source of discussion during Hospice team meetings, Dr. Moores said.

``She makes us terribly nervous,'' he joked, though they have confirmed her terminal condition and regularly review her progress to make sure she is still an appropriate candidate.

It is not that she wants to die, Betty said, but she fears she will become a burden.

``I don't like to be dependent on them,'' she says. ``But you all have made this bearable.''

``Thank you,'' Bill says.

Sometimes they don't even need to speak. Sitting up in bed, Betty wants a kiss and she holds her arms out. Bill shuffles over to the bed, bends down and takes her in his arms to plant a quick kiss on her lips. Betty's hands come up and fall lightly on his shoulders as she presses her cheek to his and peers over his shoulder.

Just for a moment, they look as if they are dancing.