Rick Stoddard's Time in Prison

My name is Rick Stoddard and I am 68 years old.  I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (Mormon).  My faith and testimony drive everything I do.I want to write about my time in prison. My hope is that my experiences might be of some help to someone.

 

 

Why prison?  A short version answer at this time.  I and others owned a bank.  The government took it; I fought back; I lost.

 

 

I served in the Sacramento County Jail for five weeks-plus; the balance of seven prison months in the Metropolitan Detention Center Los Angeles (MDCLA), a Federal Prison.  Those who know me observe that I constantly use the initials MDCLA in multiple situations. While the approach and attitude may seem backward, for reasons that will hopefully become clear, I never want to forget my time of incarceration; where I was; who I was and who I still am - a felon. The second seven months of my 14-month sentence was in a half-way house in Sacramento.

 

 

 

The prospect of life behind bars is pretty frightening, even if the time is not that long comparative to some others.  I was convicted in October 1995, and because of appeals, stays and other procedures, I began serving my hard-time in June 1999.  Sometimes when I face situations that seem intimidating I will try to psych myself by saying  - it can't be as bad as I am dreading; I am overstating the difficulties and challenges in my mind.  Often, that approach helps.  Not in this case, though.  Oddly enough, I took the opposite viewpoint.  I decided that this would be far and away the worst place I had ever been.  I remember the day I reported to the Sacramento County Jail -- I told myself over and over again that I was walking through the Jaws of Hell.  There was no reason to sugar-coat things in my mind in advance.  Thankfully, this approach did actually help.  In some ways, the situation and conditions were worse than I had ever imagined.  However, in other ways it was not that bad as compared to the dire circumstances I had envisioned.

 

 

I soon realized that I had received some bad advice.  I had two options for reporting- (1) directly to MDCLA in Southern California; or (2) to the Sacramento County Jail, where I would then be transported to LA.  So why not save the travel and report locally?  I soon learned why not.  In my discussions with other prisoners I learned that there are differences between various types of prisons. The best conditions are in Federal facilities.  Next comes Stateprisons. The worst are the local jails.  I would have no reason to guess that before my experiences; and I don't know for sure how true these generalizations are; for me there was a huge difference between MDCLA and Sac County.  Perspective is interesting.  I spoke with a fellow prisoner (a doctor in for Medicare fraud) at MDCLA.  When he first saw the accommodations, he actually cried to see how utterly deplorable the arrangements were.  The negative aspects of the life he was about to live were overwhelming to him. From my viewpoint and perspective, after 5-plus weeks in the Sac County Jail, when I first saw MDCLA, I was thrilled -- what an improvement! what an upgrade!

 

 

 

The bad advice came via my misunderstanding that I would immediately be transferred from Sac to LA.  Not so I soon learned.  In fact my transfer was a very low priority.  By calling my Public-Defender attorney's office, and through other research I was able to determine that the transfers generally only took place once a week.  After a while, I resigned myself to the possible reality that I might spend my whole 7-months in Sacramento -- a daunting prospect.  Some other guys in my unit who needed transfers were taken out, and then brought back to the cell because of a change in plans.  It was quite depressing for them to get their hopes up like that. 

 

 

One morning I was awakened early in the morning; about 3 AM as I recall.  Way earlier than necessary, but then there is no respect for an inmates time  - who really cares if we sit and wait?  I was taken downstairs along with another inmate.  We were both wondering if we were really leaving, or would it just be a false alarm?  After a while we were stripped naked; full-body searched (quite common); put in handcuffs and ankle-cuffs, strapped to a bar and hunched over as the confinement system was so intense that we could not stand erect.  So there we are, naked in chains, and this becomes another example of perspective.  By rights we should have been humiliated and terrified.  However, we reasoned that the guards would not be going to this much trouble for a false start, so we were really leaving this place -- albeit from prison #1 to prison #2. Our attitude was that we were visibly excited, to finally be getting out of Sacramento County Jail.  

 

I spoke to a fellow inmate in LA who had been in quite a few jails, including Los Angeles County Jail and San Bernardino County Jail.  I told him that I imagined that those were some very nasty places.  He responded that yes that was true, but he had also been in the Sacramento County Jail, and it was the worst of all.  Strangely enough, that made me feel better after the fact, that I had not exaggerated things in my mind.

 

I have seen some newspaper articles since my time there, where Sacramento County Jail guards were disciplined and even fired for prisoner abuse.  I cannot judge as I do not know the whole story in these instances, but I must admit I was glad to read of these outcomes.

 

The first place you go in the jail is the holding cell.  Again -- perspective. It is so bad there, that it makes the actual tiny cell seem not so bad.  In the holding cell there is no furniture.  The toilet is just a hole in the floor. There are way too many guys crammed in a tight space, not really even enough to even sit down, if you dared.  Disgusting food on a tray shoved under the cell door.  All of the guys are yelling or otherwise making a lot of noise. The guys are fighting to use the one phone to call friends, bail bondsman, etc.  After a few minutes I actually relax a bit. I reason, that I am not dead; I have not been attacked; people are generally leaving me alone.  Yes, this does seem like the Jaws of Hell, but I can do this, I can survive this!  Later, a group of us are taken out, stripped naked and taken to our cells.  I am not able to get my wedding ring off, so the guards cut it off with bolt-cutters.

 

The cell is very small - basically bunk beds and a toilet. Inmates come in and leave frequently, as the Jail is often a temporary place, but there are some who have been there for many months. There is a lot of movement in and out next door for court appearances. Sometimes we are let out for a while into the day room for short periods, however, other days we are basically on 23-hour lock down.  I have two different cellmates (not at the same time), and during other periods, I have no cellmate; I am alone.  I spend the time pacing for exercise, reading, playing solitaire, etc.

 

Once a week we all get to go to a room with a one basketball hoop for about an hour.  We form a league and play some very wild games.  There are three teams, divided by race -- blacks, Hispanic and whites.  Even though I am less than 6-1, I am known as The Giant.  The play is rough and very physical, but it is fun as a break from the usual.  We all look forward to it.  I make friends.

 

At MDCLA I have plenty of time to think; all prisoners do.  I work very hard to stay positive.  I tell myself -- don't whine, nobody cares.  Then I think, I have family - lot's of people care, and care deeply.  So I change my mantra to -  don't whine, nobody wants to hear it.  And that in my opinion is very true.  True friends and family are willing to hear you whine and complain, but truthfully, they would rather not. I think of that often ever since.  There are so many things I learned being incarcerated that have helped me.  I still whine and complain sometimes, but not nearly as much. Sometimes people have asked me in a tough situation -- why does this not appear to bother you?  My response  -- I've been toprison, this seems pretty easy compared to that.

 

The best thing I have learned is that I am not alone -ever.  My testimony of God is that he can always be with us, with his spirit to comfort and buoy us up, no matter how vile and negative the circumstances.  Not being close to God comes from making bad choices, not from the present environment where we find ourselves.  My God-where-are-you? moments come when I have sinned and fallen short by my own mistakes.  I can feel his presence and influence in the wonderful and peaceful Temples, and he is just as available in a nasty prison or jail. At least, that is my experience.

 

Being a felon has given me more self-confidence in two ways. (1) the opportunity to rely more than every on God and his love for me, and (2) just the knowledge that I have survived a very hard thing, gives me hope that I can survive other very hard things.  A line from my favorite poem Invictus -- "My head is bloody but unbowed".  The whole poem is inspiring to me, as it was to Nelson Mandela.  My few months seem pretty insignificant compared to his 29 years.

 

The Serenity prayer was a great inspiration too -- accepting things we cannot change.  I remember chuckling once with an inmate who was having a rough go of it, he thought he needed constant medication to survive the reality of lock-up.  He would say over and over again -- I cant do this.  I am afraid that I was not as sympathetic as I should have been.  My response was -- well, tell the Warden, I am sure he will let you out right away!  My warped way of saying -- of course you can do this, you have no choice.  I guess in a way the choices are to make the best of it, or sink into despair.

 

In MDCLA our floor was comprised of inmates who had less that 2 years to serve before release.  Some were short-sentence types like me, while others had been in the system for years, but were now nearing the end.  We did a lot of the jobs in the prison.  I had two jobs  -- cleaning the lobby and restrooms where the visitors come to see inmates, and landscaping and clean-up -- actually outside the prison doors.  The guards decided that they could trust me not to run away.  It makes sense of course, as the sentence for run-away attempt would be longer than the original sentence. We did get paid for the work -- my pay was lower than others -- 9 cents an hour.  Less than minimum wage because of the excellent room and board we enjoyed.  One of my duties was washing the Warden's car from time to time.

 

 

On the other floors of MDCLA were some pretty rough characters, including, as we understood it, some of the leaders of what was called the Mexican Mafia, who were under "temporary lock-up" for a long time.  One of the jobs that some inmates had was suicide watch for these other floors.  The particular cells would have one inmate who had been determined to be a suicide risk.  The cell door was see-though, and the worker would sit a desk attached to the door for hours at a time to watch the other inmate for anything that looked like attempted suicide.

 

 

My daughter and son-in-law visited me in LA.  In the visiting room are tables where the inmates and visitors can sit and talk, with lots of guards on watch.  They sang me a song, which was very nice. My daughter Emily asked me - how do you get along with these people, these prisoners?  I corrected her to remind her that it is not a matter of me and them in contrast.  I am one of them; I am a prisoner and a life-long felon.  My attitude was and is that way because it is true -- I am no better than anyone else there serving time.  Additionally, that sort of attitude would have very negative reaction with the other inmates -- the air that I am better than you, and I shouldn't really be here with people like you.  Eventually that attitude will get you beat up, with the usual way an attack while showering where the guards cannot see.  I've seen it happen.

 

 

 

Emily also asked me how the guards treated me at MDCLA.  I put it this way.  Some people treat dogs very well, are not physically abusive, and treat dogs like people in some respects.  However, at the end of the day, you know you are still a dog.

 

 

It is so interesting to me how as a prisoner and a felon, it affects the way you think and look at things.  As I worked my jobs, I noticed flaws in the security system which would have allowed me to sneak a loaded gun into the prison, inside the locked doors.  The only way that I would have been caught would have been through a random strip search, which did happen from time to time.  I had absolutely no inclination to sneak a gun inside the prison, it was just interesting that I even thought that way in terms of observing procedures. Someone might ask -- why didn't you report the flaws to the Warden and the guards?  My response is simply this -- there is no way I would do something like that, and you would have to actually be a prisoner to understand why.

 

 

 

Making liquor at MDCLA was a constant activity by the prisoners.  I was surprised how quickly it fermented and how powerful it was.  I have never tasted alcohol, and I certainly was not going to start in prison, but I did observe inmates getting very drunk.  The key ingredients were bread and grapefruits, the liquor was called Pruno.  The Warden and guards would not get mad that the liquor was being made and consumed, but rather that it was sometimes spilled, making a mess.  They took a look-the-other-way attitude.  They could have curtailed the activity by stopping serving grapefruits at meals. Sometimes I felt like the only guy actually eating grapefruit.  Whenever it was served, there would be one inmate openly and brazenly collecting grapefruits for the next liquor batch.

 

 

We hear stories of prisoners having their own codes and standards, and that they don't like child molesters.  I observed an example of that. A new prisoner came in for a crime not relating to children.  There was an unsubstantiated rumor that the had molested his own child. Actually, all rumors in prison are unsubstantiated.  Anyway, he did not last long.  After a few days, he was attacked in the shower and beat up.  He had to be removed to solitary confinement.

 

 

Every morning I would clean the restrooms in the lobby that were used by the visitors.  On a very regular basis in the women's restroom there would be a disgusting mess left for me to clean up.  I assume that some lady (girl-friend, wife, etc of an inmate) did this to strike back at the "system", or something like that.  It was interesting to see the kids in the lobby.  I could often see them pointing at me and whispering to each other -- look, there's a prisoner. Sometimes youth groups would walk through the day room with guards to see what the inside of a real prison looks like. We would be out among them and not behind bars.  Often you could see how nervous they were to be in such close proximity to real live prisoners.  I never found this degrading or offensive; rather I found it amusing.  I though about growling or something to scare them, but I thought better, as that might have invited unwanted action on my person by the guards.

 

 

We hear stories about the gay/homosexual activity in prison, including sexual assaults.  I have no doubt that these assaults do happen, and possibly frequently.  However, for me, this was thankfully never an issue.  It was prevalent, but my stance of having no interest was respected. For some inmates, Saturday night getting drunk and having sex was a regular deal. One gay inmate (openly so), turned out to be probably my best friend. This was one factor in my Jaws of Hell pre-prison concerns that turned out to be less threatening that I had feared. For some readers I imagine that I have offended sensibilities with these observations, and for that I apologize, but one of my goals is to be real with my account of the way it was.

 

 

I spent time with one cellmate, and others, helping them to learn in hopes that they might proceed on a path to get a GED. I made cards and drilled my cellmate on the multiplication tables.  As I helped two other guys who were interested, I thought -- wow, if I ran across these 2 guys on the outside, they were some pretty scary looking dudes, I would have probably turned the other way and run to safety as fast as I could.  It was interesting that we could be semi-friends here on the inside, but most likely not on the outside.

 

 

My conclusions from my limited incarceration time is that the concept of rehabilitation is a farce.  At MDCLA there was a highly compensated teacher and regular classes, but the teacher had seemingly stopped caring at all.  It was a joke.  There were computers available but never used.  My suggestion would be that the classes should be optional for the inmates, but that the classes have the goal of the actual granting of a GED, and that this attainment would give an inmate a certain amount of months taken off his time.  With that motivation, some would definitely take it serious. In addition, it would be quite simple for the prison to obtain a lot of computers, just by taking the older, slower ones that might be tossed anyway.  Let the inmates spend the time to learn how to use various programs. This could be done without Internet connections, so as to avoid security concerns from on-line access. 

 

 

With the little money I made, I was able to buy some food like jelly and peanut butter, and then I saved bread from the meals.  Each morning as I went down the elevator to work I encountered the menu for the day.  Not a lot of variety.  For certain meals that I saw, my reaction would be - well, PBJ today! Some of the food was amazing bad.  To this day I will still not eat meatloaf. Some bad experiences inside with that dish.

 

 

 

Some of the inmates worked in the kitchen. They would often steal spices and such from the kitchen and bring these to the unit.  Actually, runners would bring the stolen food, following the procedure that pick-pockets use, where the thief "never holds". With some of the food not used at the dinners, these guys would make some amazing meals for us, as we did have a microwave in the unit.  They were nice to me in making some milder version as the Jalapeno's and other spices made for some very hot meals.

 

 

Every inmate knows exactly how many days to go before he is released, and sometimes there was a possibly an earlier release for good behavior.  My time was fixed, with no change possible. We are let out the in morning, so there was a certain protocol to describe how long we had left.  I might say I have 22 days left, and I was corrected -- the correct description was  --  21 days and a wake-up.  Those were the counting rules.

 

 

 

Fighting did take place, which the guards tolerated, but what was not tolerated was to have a bruise or other mark the next morning at breakfast. Do your fight thing, but don't show anything for it.  I remember fights where both guys afterwards were frantically doing whatever they could to hide the results the next morning.

 

 

 

The morning I was to leave the guy in the cell next to me wanted to fight me because I would not give him the belt I had from work. He made it clear that the guard in the day room was not going to help if I went crying to him, which was unfortunately true.  I was able to dodge him somehow and avoid the fight. This was important because (1) He would have wasted me, and (2) I wanted no bruises and story to delay my imminent release.

 

 

In planning for prison, I told my wife Jean that it would be better for us if she did not visit for the 7 months, so that she did not have to be exposed to conditions at the facilities.  Luckily for me, she ignored me on this point. The visits at Sac County Jail were brief and very restricted.  I was behind glass.  She came to MDCLA once month on Friday evenings for longer visits where we could sit at a table and hold hands.

 

 

Separation from Jean was hard,but at least we got to see each other a little bit on visits.  And then during time at the halfway house in Sacramento for 7 months, I was able to work at the office by our Penryn house and see her a little in the afternoons.   The real hard thing was the three boys at home.  No contact at all for the first 7 months, and very limited contact for the second 7 months.  So for 14 months at a critical time in their lives, I did not get to be their dad. The compensating factor in this situation, is and was, their amazing mother.

 

 

I cannot adequately describe it, even today, but my time behind bars ended up having a profound positive impact on my life. The lessons I learned made me a better person; maybe I needed that experience to smooth over some rough edges?  I don't know.  I wouldn't wish that on anybody, but I did benefit from the whole ordeal. One obvious observation is the frequently quoted -- what doesn't kill you makes you stronger -- but there is something even beyond that, which I am struggling to describe and articulate. Suffice it to say, with all that I have experienced, I still would not trade my life for anyone else's.  I think about a life history without prison, and a current status of not being a felon, and while it sounds pleasing in many respects, it does not feel like me.

 

The Death of a Spouse

My name is Rick Stoddard and I am 68 years old.  I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (Mormon).  My faith and testimony drive everything I do.

I want to write about the death of a spouse. My hope is that my experiences might be of some help to someone.

Family of Rick and Barbara Stoddard before pregnancy and leukemia diagnosis. Starting with tallest standing boy and going clockwise Michael, Barbara, Rick, Jeff, Mandy, Holly, Emily, and Brent.

In 1982 when I was 37 and my wife was 35, we had 7 children, and a very happy marriage and family. In October of that year she died of leukemia.  I was then a widower, with the kids aged 12-10-10-8-6-3-1.

Stoddard Family.  Barbara pregnant with #7 Allen.

During Barbara's sixth pregnancy with our seventh child (we had twins for #2 and #3), she was definitely more run-down than previous pregnancies.  Neither of us were alarmed or overly concerned, as we thought that it was just more of the same, and increased because of the multiple pregnancies and obviously the work associated with a large family.  I was on a work-trip in Texas during one of her OB-GYN visits when she was getting some tests for her condition. As I recall it was during one of our phone calls while I was in Texas that I first heard that leukemia was a possibility.  I was very unknowledgeable on the disease, so I was still not worried.  I thought that leukemia was a form of pneumonia, and that antibiotics would be needed, and that everything would turn out fine for our planned and structured lives. We met with the doctor after my the return from the short trip, and this is when I learned that leukemia is a cancer and that it is a killer and that leukemia while pregnant is a very bad thing.  To say the least, our world was rocked and turned on its end.  There are significant moments in our lives, watershed moments if you will, where we can look back a say that is when everything changed. For Barbara and I, sitting the doctors office and hearing the news, that was the moment.  This was July 1981 and she died in October 1982.

I have spoken to other men whose wives have died young, while there were children at home.  In some of these cases, the wife was taken suddenly in an auto accident or by some other calamity.  It is an interesting comparison for me -- which is harder, the instant loss, or watching the process of loss over a longer period? My conclusion is that the question is ultimately unanswerable and probably pointless.  Both situations are difficult and all we can say is that they are different.  Whatever we experience in life, good or bad, there are four truths to consider.  First, there will be others with similar experiences, and this can be a source of help.  Second, everybody's situation is unique -- no one has exactly the same challenges as any other person. Third, God understands our situation perfectly, and because of the sufferings endured by his Son via the atonement, we have a friend whose challenges were worse than ours, and who therefore can offer perfect empathy.This faith/knowledge is real, and not just a religious salve that has been concocted by mankind to get us though times that would otherwise be unbearable.  Fourth, no matter what we face and endure, it all has a purpose, which purpose will almost always not be readily apparent to us, and which will not immediately render the pain any less intense, as time is needed for this.

Another comparison is of interest to consider.  It is more difficult for a man do lose his wife while they are both in their 30's with a large family?  How about that compared to the situation where a wife dies very young, before there are years and years of memories?  What about compared to the situation where a man's wife dies when they are in their advanced years, when they have a lifetime of memories, and hopefully the knowledge that they will be reunited soon? When the very young wife dies, this brings the sorrow of many dreams and goals that will seemingly never be met, and lives together that will never be lived?  My conclusions are the same -- that these questions are ultimately unanswerable and probably pointless. It is plenty difficult, no matter what the situation.  So difficult, and so painful, that comparisons to others, and a series of what-if's, are unnecessary, and definitely not helpful.

After her death, and during my life as a single parent (I remarried a year later), a male friend of mine was speaking to me in a kind and caring way. He stated that he could never handle the situation that had been handed to me.  I had two responses for him.  First, you never know what you can handle and endure until you are forced to do it. We often have the opportunity to shockingly realize that our capacity to suffer, and endure, and to even thrive, is much broader and deeper than we could have ever imagined; and the only way this really makes sense is to acknowledge that this capacity is God-given, God-supported, and God-enhanced. The second response involved these rhetorical questions.  Do you think that anyone ever checked with me to see if I were ready for this?  Do you think that for the really big challenges in life we have a lot of warning and preparation and advance notice?  I thought about my wife dying every day from July 1981 until the day she did pass, but even with that time, there was no way I was ready.  In reality, there was no way I could have ever been completely ready. It seems pretty simplified to say it this way, but it is completely true -- we do what we have to do when we are forced to do it. when it is thrust upon us.

I read an article in a newspaper not long after October 1982, where the principal point was that the greatest difficultly and sadness that a man can face is the death of his wife.  I remarked at that the time that I did not agree with that assertion.  To me, something harder than death would be the failure of a relationship.  Failure seemed to be more difficult (in theory in my mind) than the temporary separation of death (not a theory to me, but a reality).  Barbara's and my relationship was not perfect by any accounting nor viewpoint, as we experienced the many ups and downs that most or all couples face.  However, I was so grateful in retrospect, that when she did die, our relationship had never been better. The lesson there along the lines of you-never-know is pretty obvious.  My viewpoint of death-separation vs relationship-failure was painfully proven to me in 1989 when my 16-year old son died in an accident at time when he was a run-away, and when our personal relationship could realistically only be termed a failed relationship.  My surviving children argue that my characterization of our father-son relationship as "failed" is too harsh, and too final-sounding, and they may be right.  However, my point is that the 1989 pain far exceeded the 1982 pain, and that is true even today, after many years of reflection.  

When the leukemia diagnosis was confirmed and explained, we then learned that the baby had to be born immediately, so that Barbara's cancer treatments could start immediately.   Allen was born on July 29 weighing in at 7-12 and 7-4.   He spent his first month of life in neo-natal intensive care at the hospital.  I distinctly remember the chaos at the birth.  I am in one ambulance with Allen as he is being rushed to one hospital. Barbara is being rushed to another location for her first of many surgeries and medical procedures in the leukemia fight. Prayer was more important to me at that moment than it had ever been before.  Of course, I wanted them both to live, and I knew that God knew that.  However, that was not the urgent focus of my prayers. This is what I desperately wanted to know right away  -- God -- are you in charge and will this turn out according to your will?  This is version of what I feel is the most important prayer that I or anyone else can ever offer  -- Are you really there?  Do you care about me?  Please confirm that I am not alone.  The answer was definite and immediate. It was not a voice, a burning or anything like that.  Rather it was a feeling of complete peace.  I had my answer, and it was undeniable. For every challenge or difficulty I have since faced in my life, my prayer has always been the same. God  -- please confirm that you are in charge. The answer is always immediate.  I found it odd in a way that I did not beg or plead for them to live, although that was certainly my wish. Also, I did not ask for an answer right then as to who would survive -- Barbara, Allen, both or neither.

Prayer is important to me, but effective and meaningful prayers is not one of my strengths.  However, I have learned a few things about prayer. There is a lot of helpful counsel written about how God answers in his own time and in his own way, accordingly to his own will.  This can be a frustrating situation for the person praying.  Wiser people than me have pointed out that often we misunderstand prayer.  We sometimes look at prayer as our attempt to change God's mind and will, or to make a deal with God -- if you do this, I will do that. The better description of effective prayer for me is found in the Bible Dictionary:

As soon as we learn the true relationship in which we stand toward God (namely, God is our Father, and we are His children), then at once prayer becomes natural and instinctive on our part. Many of the so-called difficulties about prayer arise from forgetting this relationship.  Prayers is the act by which the will of the Father and the will of the child are brought into correspondence with each other.  The object of prayer is not to change the will of God but to secure for ourselves and for others blessings that God is already willing to grant but that are made conditional on our asking for them.  Blessings require some work or effort on our part before we can obtain them.. Prayer is a form of work and is an appointed means for obtaining the highest of all blessings.

So the benefit for me in this counsel was and is this --  if we want an immediate answer to prayer, ask God this -- Are you in charge?  I always get an immediate response to this specific query.

Many portions of our lives over the next 15 months are a blur.  More surgeries and medical procedures and twists and turns than I can even remember.  At one point in the process an option arose -- a bone marrow transplant at the Hutchinson Cancer Center in Seattle.  At that time this was an remerging and developing medical treatment.  

Transplants could only come from immediate family members - children or siblings.  All were tested, and none were a match for Barbara. Then another option was explained  - Barbara could be her own donor.  At first we considered that Barbara would be treated in Seattle, while the 7 kids and I would remain in California, with me taking frequent trips to Washington. When then decided that we would jump all in, and have all 9 of us move to Seattle.  We started there and lived for a few days in a very small apartment.  Then as evidence that death was all around us in an intimate and very real way, a larger apartment opened up because of the death of another cancer patient.

Stoddard Family.  Barbara after chemotherapy and hair regrowth.

At one point a group of doctors explained to Barbara and me how radical and untested this procedure would be.  A paradoxical position/decision was presented to us.  Barbara was only a candidate for this treatment because she was doing so well, effectively "in remission". Did we want to run with that favorable condition, or take the much greater risk of possible death from the treatment itself, because of the potential for a complete "cure".. In short order ( just a few minutes actually) we decided that we would "go for it!"  From my non-medical viewpoint the process was this.  The doctors would extract Barbara's bone marrow (from her hip bones), a procedure that was brutal, but not life-threatening in itself.  Next, the doctors would chemically kill all of her white blood cells (which were the cancerous ones; this is what leukemia is to the layman).  She would then receive her bone marrow back via the transplant.  The extreme death threat is that there is a period in which the patient's body has no white blood cells, and then only a few while gradually increasing. Leukemia death comes because the body lacks the normal defense mechanisms against some sort of infection.  The death certificate may say leukemia or cancer, while the actual cause of death may be pneumonia or some other infection that would not be so traumatic to a person with normal white blood cells. The benchmark that was a point of reference and discussion for all patients in this Seattle group was the number of days since zero day, the day all white blood cells were killed.  Obviously, the higher the number the better.  As I recall Barbara got into trouble and quickly died on Day 33.

The self-bone-marrow transplant procedure was very new at the time, and almost never attempted with a woman in the menopausal portion of her life, because this was considered to be especially risky.  Barbara almost never had a period, but in an incredible stroke of bad luck, she had a period shortly after Day 0.

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints represents the Savior's Church that was restored in 1830, with the same organization and features that existed at the meridian of time, when Christ lived on the earth.  This restoration included the Priesthood -- the authority and power to act in God's name. As a consequence Priesthood blessings are now available for comfort and healing. As a woman of faith, Barbara received Priesthood blessings, from me and from others. She professed that she was confident that she would be healed as a direct result of these blessings.  However, we know that while there have been many actual and documented healings through these administrations, the bottom line is that God's will is done in every case. Faithful and righteous people do die.  Barbara received many, many Priesthood blessings, even though multiple blessings are not always necessary, but more for ongoing comfort, as the power and blessings are real, even with just a single administration.  Her desires were so urgent in this regard, I have wondered since that maybe deep inside there was a feeling that she could not shake, and would not acknowledge, that she was not going to survive this malady?

For most of the 15 months together, in my mind she was going to die.  This did not represent a lack of faith on my part, but rather shows that I am a contingency-thinker.  My thoughts were that I wanted to prepare for the worst, and then be pleased and overjoyed with anything better.  There were many times that I wanted to discuss with Barbara her potential death. What would I do without her?  How could I be an effective parent on my own?  This line of discussion, however, was definitely off-limits.  Not because it would have been raw or too insensitive for her think about, but rather she professed that she was so convinced that she was going to survive this ideal, that what was the point of discussing, for example, her opinion on whether I should re-marry, should the unthinkable happen?  It would have been ridiculous for her to even consider.  Looking back, I am very glad that we did not have those kinds of discussions.  These topics would have been too painful, and most importantly, would not have actually helped either one of us.

When I was in high school a survey was taken of all graduates, made up of a series of questions of what we each wanted and predicted for our future lives.  One question was how many kids do you want to have?  We had a very large class, and next to my response of 10, the second-highest number was 5.  And of course, I did eventually have 10, with two wives. My response of 10 was given without a lot of thought at the time; I simply always wanted a lot of children.  Barbara always felt the same way, long before we ever met.  While we were engaged she suggested that we wait for a while after the marriage date to have children, so that we could spend some time getting to know each other.  I responded sure, that was great with me, but laughing inside because I knew there was no way she wanted to wait.  She cried uncontrollably when she learned that she was not immediately pregnant.  We were married on June 5, 1969 and Michael was born on June 6, 1970, 20 days late; and Barbara felt that she had been made to suffer immeasurably since she had to wait so long.

In her mind, there was no way we were done with 7 kids, and I was totally on board with that feeling.  Had Barbara survived the bone marrow transplant, one result was that it was 100% certain that she would have been sterile. She refused to accept that diagnosis, and happily talked about having many more children.  Had life's obstacles not intervened, I can easily pictured her not being satisfied and finished with 10.

The obvious question is this -- why did God allow a young mother with 7 children to die?  Barbara was not perfect, but her motives and goals were pure and correctly aligned with her actions.  All she wanted to do and be was a wife and mother. She loved these two callings (wife and mother) with an intensity that I cannot begin to describe. Our children and I loved her in return, and of course, we needed her.  How simple would it have been for God with his infinite power, and with all of the sincere, urgent, faithful and prayerful requests, to let her live and do want she wanted to do? I am convinced that God's overall plan for us, and his specific plans for each of us, have the only purposes to bring us lasting success and happiness.  One day everything will make perfect sense to us; but not today, as we grow through the trials of our faith, but even more important, not today, because the explanations would not make sense to us yet, given our need to gain more knowledge, wisdom and testimony.  It goes back to my prayer and immediate answer.  God is in charge and knows what is best. I will be fascinated one day to hear the answer to the question -- so, why did she die at that time?

Barbara's death stunned a lot of our friends and family. One close friend made humorous comment that I think probably had at least some truth to it. She said that Barbara must be okay with where she is now, because if not, she was so strong-willed and determined, she would have come back.  I doubt that coming back is actually an option, but I did and do receive a measure of comfort feeling that she understands and sees the bigger picture better than I do.

Life in Seattle after the bone-marrow transplant was full and hectic for me.  Barbara was bed-ridden at the hospital, by design, as we counted the days, with each day increasing our hope.  Getting near day-30 felt like a milestone, based upon what other patients had told us. I visited her often; fed and otherwise took care of the kids; took the kids to school and coordinated with their tutors; still did my work long-distance (lots of mailing in this pre-laptop and pre-PC era):etc.  Generally what a 36/37-year-old somehow finds the time and energy to do, and what a 68-year-old could never do.

On October 20, 1982 I turned 37, and I got word that something has gone terribly wrong with her.She was pretty much in a coma when I got to her room. I looked into her eyes and there was some awareness on her part. She looked panicked and afraid, like she was rapidly slipping away.  She could not speak, but she was able to scribble two notes before she was in a coma state. One was -- did I have a heart attack?  The other was -- where is my wedding ring?  The staff had removed her rings because of the IV's and other procedures. She was in a room with an amazing assortments of machines, equipment, IV's etc. It looked like a scene from an over-done medical movie drama.  There was the stereotypical machine with the wavy line that monitors the heartbeat.  Basically, I sat in that room with her for 3 days, watching that line change until she flat-lined.  I watched her die. The medical staff and local Church members were very kind to me.  It was obvious to everyone but me that she was not going to survive.  They all did their best to prepare me.  The machine with the two hand-held pads that is used to jump-start the heart was rolled into the hallway, but never used.

A funny thing happened to me at this time.  I, who thought that she was going to die all along, now became convinced that she was going to make it through this.  I was sure that it would be a great testimony story of an awesome healing through the power of the priesthood.  As the evidence mounted to the contrary, and the line kept getting flater, I just kept thinking that the testimony was going to be even all the more spectacular. As people spoke to me, I just thought to myself -- you don't have the faith that I have; this is going to turn out just fine. Today as I reflect on that, my wrong interpretation does not mean that I was someone tricked.  Rather it was a blessing, a true tender mercy from God. My hope and thought that she would survive made the situation bearable, even though things did not turn out like I thought. It was not devastation and shock when the line went flat, and stayed flat, but rather resignation and acceptance.  I made the lonely walk home to tell the kids, and I truly felt peace. The kids visited her often in the hospital, but not those last three days. My approach was that they should not see and remember their mother that way.

I sometimes since have considered that it would have been nice if she would have come to consciousness for just a few minutes, so that we could have had a few final words together.  What words/counsel/advice would she have spoken?  I quickly realized that I did not need that.  If someone had told Barbara that she had five minutes to live, and that we had that time to talk, I know exactly what she would have said.  She would have mentioned each of the 7 kids by name, and told me specific things that I should do with and for them.

I was sure that my testimony of life after death, and of eternal families, would sustain me upon her death, knowing that our separation was in fact temporary.  And truthfully, that conviction helped me more that I had ever imagined.  However, I was completely unprepared for how I felt the next day -October 24th.  The shock and reality or her passing was overwhelming.  I had never experienced anything remotely like it.  And then the next day my viewpoint and feelings dramatically changed.  Two facts drove this change.  First, it was another tender mercy from God. Second, the new reality of my life going forward replaced the reality of her death and our separation. There were 7 children who needed a functioning dad, and needed him right now. My being immobilized by grief would not produce anything any better for them, or for me.  So it was one day of intense pain, and then on with life!

At times I have compared myself to widower dads in movies, books and real life, where the man is inconsolable and grief-stricken for years.  Is/was there something wrong with me?  Was my lack of total devastation for an extended period some evidence of a character flaw, or worse yet, proof that I did not love Barbara as much as I professed?  Charitably, I quickly realized that, no, that's just me; everyone is different, and in no situation are the differences between humans more evident, than with grief. A son-in-law asked me recently -- how did you deal with the loss of your wife?  I hope that my response did not sound harsh or cold.  I said that I knew on the one hand that Barbara and I have an eternal marriage, and that I will be with her again, if I live my life correctly.  Absolutely no doubts there.  However, on the other hand she is gone, she is not here, and hopefully the kids and I will live long lives, so it will be many, many years before we see each other again. So today, tomorrow and the next day, she is a pleasant and lasting memory, but in our day-today lives she is in a sense not relevant, not a factor. The message of the Josh Groban song To Where You Are, is beautiful, inspiring and basically true, as far as we know, so "irrelevant" is not the correct description. She is not gone forever, but she is gone for a long, long time.  Knowing that this earth life is just a blip in our eternal existence is a comforting truth, but it is still a very long time.

A man remarked to me soon thereafter -- how, you must be lonely.  My response -- I've got 7 kids, and I'm feeling a lot emotions, but lonely is not one of them.

I had read before that often with the death of the spouse, the survivor will feel anger towards the decease, as if that makes any sense.  I always thought -- how strange is that?  And then I did feel it, and it truly was strange.

In my opinion, death is so hard because of three factors:

    1- The great unknown

    2- The separation from loved ones

    3- The inconvenient timing

    4- The actual physical pain and suffering of the dying process, unless it is something like the situation where a totally healthy individual somehow dies in their sleep.

My faith, testimony and religious convictions pretty much take care of #1 for me.  There is so much I do not know, but I know enough in this regard.

In terms of #2, my faith, testimony and religious convictions convince me that the separation is temporary. This knowledge does not eliminate the pain, but the lack of knowledge would render the pain unbearable. Truthfully, sometimes the pain of separation is selfish in my view.  What would I prefer, that my parents live on until the day that I die, so that we are not separated?  Why delay the joyful reunion with their parents, and their grandparents?  Do I wish that my children would all die on the same day as me in order that I would not experience separation?  What about their lives?  What about my grandchildren and their lives?  I don't relish being separated from them, but would I at the same time deny them the opportunity to have grandchildren of their own with the attendant joys?  With full apologies to the grieving, separation loss can sometimes be a bit selfish or self-centered in nature.

In terms of # 3, my faith, testimony and religious convictions don't really give me answers, except this -- God is in charge, and everything will work out fine, and one day we will see that clearly, but usually not at the present. And for me, that is enough for now.

In terms of #4, unless there is some sort of blessing from God to delay or avoid the pain, this negative factor just is what it is.

In conclusion, I hope that these thoughts and opinions might be of help to someone, somewhere.  The price I have had to pay here is a whole lot more "I" writing than I am comfortable with. I struggle often being too self-centered, and this line of thinking and writing does not help overcome that challenge. 

Jeff's Perspective

I remember getting the news that mom had leukemia when she was our scout leader. We walked down the hill from our house and to go on a fishing trip on that day. I think we found out when we were down fishing and walked back home early. We had a long talk with dad and mom that night. I remember going to getting tested for my blood type with the rest the kids and feeling scared about the process and the outcome in case I was the same blood type though I also hoped to have the same blood type so I could help. 

I remember when we moved to Seattle as a family and going through the whole process of trying to cure mom. At a certain point wen she was in the hospital we would go and visit her every day with dad and after a while we would all leave and play with toys in the toy room at the hospital while dad stayed to talk with her. I remember distinctly one day feeling how shallow it felt to leave and play with toys when my mom might not be there the next day. Instead of leaving and playing with toys that day I stayed longer to talk with my mom. As I recall, it was not too many days after that that we could no longer go to visit mom because she had taken such a turn for the worse. She died a few days later.

Those days, were days in which my very simple, little boy soul went to deeper places in preparation for the reality of life and death that was about to come crashing into my life. I remember dad coming home the night she died. A few of us ran to the door when we heard him start to open the door. We were filled with fear of the news that was about to come. I'd never seen my dad cry before so seeing his eyes as red teary as they were told me everything. I remember sitting is in a room as a family with my brothers, sisters, dad and grandmothers and crying until, because of physical and emotional fatigue we could not cry any longer. The deep pit in my heart that was carved by pain that night and the following months was filled with a resolve to do what I knew I needed to do to be with my mother again. My mom and dad had taught me that if I lived the commandments of gospel I could be with my family forever. I knew it was true. The pain of my mother's death was swallowed up in the knowledge that, because of Jesus' resurrection, my mother's soul lived on, that she would live again and that we could be together if I obeyed God's commandments partook of Christ's atonement. At a time when death was so near to me nothing could have been more real than this truth. 

It is interesting how when death and pain are not present we so easily forget our mortality and these important truths. It definitely says something about our purpose here on earth. It is not all meant to be fun and entertainment. We naturally crave this. No one goes out looking for pain or death. But these things are a part of life and seeking to avoid their part and purpose in life or being shocked by pain or death as if we were never meant to experience these types of things is folly. This is never more clear than when a someone close to us dies.