Death Watch

The last three months I have been involved with people who have died.  Or, at least, I knew that their life was almost at an end, and I was waiting.

Dolores, Teacher Extraordinaire

My first loss in these months was Dolores, an educator of many years.  She and I were both employed by the Englewood Public Schools, although not at the same school.  Here students were all young people with developmental disabilities.  She was part teacher, mentor, friend, guide, confident, and mother for these children.  Somehow, the work done by the teachers responsible for these children never receives the recognition they deserve.  And, yet, the responsibilities of bringing them into the world of being productive adults is so critically important.

It is also the reason that the organization ARC receives all of my give-away goods.  ARC has really great work and social programs for young people as they grew out of Dolores’ school program.

One of my prized possessions is a Christmas cactus.  Dolores knew that I really wanted one and hadn’t been able to make a “start” take.  So, she did it for me.  At a meeting we both attended (many retired teachers belong to the Arapahoe County Retired Teachers group), she presented me with a four-inch pot holding the small Christmas cactus.  Over the years, it has grown into a larger plant and, actually, blossomed.  The story is that they are called Christmas cactuses because they bloom at Christmastime.  This one must be REALLY SPECIAL because it often blooms three or four times a year!  It resides in a larger pot, now, sitting inside the fancy holder of a man with spectacles.  And, the cactus looks like his hair!

Dolores had a compassion for her charges.  Not sappy, but genuine compassion.  Her students always could tell that she respected them and would help them grow into the grownups that they needed to be.

Marion¸ Sweet, Gentle, Lady

Marion was about ten years older than I.  I remember when her husband Frank turned ninety.  She had a party for him at the Meridian where they lived.  I felt so privileged to be invited to the party.  She and Frank, after all of the years they had been married (and I don’t know the exact number), were clearly, very much in love.  When I had the pleasure of having dinner with them, in the dining hall at the Merician, we would start our meal with conversation  But, it wasn’t long before they were holding hands – under the table.  I always wondered how many other couples did the same thing.

Marion was shorter than I and always nattily dressed, every hair in place; white hair carefully coiffed.  When the pandemic hit and the residents at the Merician were not allowed to go out for hair care and beauticians were not allowed to go in to provide care, it was a great concern to Marion.  It certainly did NOT fit with her idea of being dressed to see anyone.

I was also privileged to take Marion and Frank to their medical appointments.  Sometimes, if my schedule allowed, we would stop at their favorite restaurant for lunch.  I think they often scheduled their appointments so that we could do just that.  During the pandemic, I was not allowed to pick her up for those appointments or even to see her.  And, I really missed her.

Then came the day when we could sit outside at a table that was provided.  Still masked, but I could bring coffee or tea.  And later, I was allowed to pick her up, again for the appointments.

It was always great to see her daughter from Nebraska.  Again, love was at the top of their list!

The day came when her daughter called to say that Marion was in the hospital with some unique blood disorder, and that her time was limited.  I cried for days, knowing that I could not go to see her and, surely, the day arrived that she was gone.  I make every effort to remember the best times, but some days it is very difficult.

FJ, Brother-in-Law

FJ – that is his real name.  It is not “F” for something and “J” for something.  It is FJ, period.

I had four sisters.  In the long run, my mother had seven sons-in-law.  Two sisters had two husbands each.  And, three of us had one.  FJ left this earth, last night.  What that means is that of all of the twelve daughters and sons-in-law, sister Clara and I are the last.

FJ married my sister, Marie, who came with a ready-made family of four children – two boys and two girls.  He was a really great dad for those kids.  And, I think a fine husband for my sister.  They had horses on their small acreage, just outside of Pueblo.  After being in the military, he spent some years as a painter (houses and such) and, then, many years as a mail carrier.  He hunted elk in western Colorado and, then, when he stopped hunting worked at the ranch with other hunters.

After my sister passed, he and I would have breakfast when I traveled to Ghost Ranch for my two- or three-month volunteer job there.  I remember that on one trip to New Mexico something in my Oldsmobile’s engine stopped working just south of Pueblo.  As I had not lived in Pueblo for some time – years and years, in fact – I had no idea where I could get the necessary mechanical help I needed.  FJ rescued me by directing me to the right garage (my AAA driver took the car and me to that garage); FJ took me to lunch and back to get my car, after which I was able to continue on to Ghost Ranch.

Pancreatic cancer is a devastating disease.  It has taken a little more than three months for this cancer to take his life.  He was preceded in death by Marie, and two of the four children he helped to raise.  It is hard for me to know that three of my sisters and all of my brothers-in-law are gone, and that there are only two of us left.

My PCP shared an interesting concept when I saw him last.  He did apologize that thinking about his statement might be difficult and, even, make the statement border on objectionable.  What he said is that “death seems to be inconvenient; for everyone.”  Well, for everyone except the deceased.  For those of us who remain, it is difficult.  What is to be done with belongings and other possessions?  What do you do when you want to give the person a call and realize that you can’t?  What happens when you want to make that person’s favorite food and realize there is no point?  How can you work with the grief?

I have loved every one of these people who are now gone.  But, as Clara always says, “We’re not getting out of this world, alive.”

Be safe and be well.

The Cranky Crone

Thoughtful comments are always appreciated.