Death

All of us will pass through its portals.  We never know when, or at least we hope we can put it off for as long as possible.  Sometimes, if we're really lucky, we live until we're in our eighties or nineties.  Other times, we die prematurely, through no fault of our own or through our own devices.

Our Mother died relatively young at age sixty-four.  For nearly forty of those years, she imitated a chimney.  There are reasons that explain why she did it, but there's no denying that smoking cigarettes was at least a contributing factor to her death.

Reckless behavior, poor dietary habits, lack of exercise -- there are myriad reasons that bring about death.  If we're lucky, truly lucky, death arrives via old age.  But few these days are so lucky.

Yesterday, I learned from online sources that my Uncle John and my Aunt Joyce -- siblings or our Mother -- died within a month or so of each other.  Uncle John was eighty-six, Aunt Joyce ninety-one.  Our uncle died from Parkinson's and our aunt from Alzheimer's.  Both were accomplished in their respective fields -- Uncle John was a priest who oversaw three parishes in the Upper Peninsula and Aunt Joyce was a trailblazer who first got a degree in chemistry when women didn't attend college and then, some twenty-five years later, got a law degree when it still wasn't fashionable to do that.  O', and she had raised four boys in between her degrees.

But what's disturbing about both deaths, apart from the fact that they died and that none of my siblings saw fit to alert me about their deaths, is that they died alone.  Aunt Joyce had been widowed for nearly thirty years; Uncle John, of course, had no immediate family.  I think about their last moments, what they were thinking, what family members they remembered last, and wonder what it will be like when I go.  It's also incredibly sad, even though all of us essentially die alone, because no matter how faithful they were, it had to be a little scary for them, especially in their advanced years and with the illnesses from which they suffered.   Our Mom died with people around her, but neither Aunt Joyce nor Uncle John had that luxury, as it were.  My heart grieves for them.

I'm also troubled by the fact that my insensitive siblings stole the decision from me to be there to honor their memories.  It's doubtful that I would have been able to make it to the Upper Peninsula for Uncle John, but I most certainly could have been there for Aunt Joyce.  Yet my siblings were thoughtless enough to rob me of that opportunity.

Thirty years ago, the pair took me on a trip to Ireland.  I often joke that I had all my contingencies covered, because I was traveling with a priest and an attorney.  Uncle John was trying to travel incognito, seeming to think that as a priest he would be greeted as if he were the fifth Beatle.  When they went to Dublin Castle to look up dead relatives, I at twenty-two went to the Guinness brewery.  We had Mass in our hotel room -- remember, he was the only Beatle wearing a Roman collar -- and went to cultural events across the country.  The high point for Aunt Joyce and me was when the priest was waylaid by some distant cousins in Skerries who reminded me of the pair of sisters in Arsenic and Old Lace.  Seeing the otherwise imperturbable priest unable to get a word in edgewise with these two was priceless.

For me, their thoughtfulness and generosity knew no bounds.  Aunt Joyce guided me through the legal world deftly, and Uncle John both lent me money and debated theology with me.  I like to think I won a point or two with him.  Both were highly intelligent, highly stubborn and somewhat combative.  They may have been the only aunt and uncle I ever knew, but they were excellent in their roles, and I was darned lucky to have them.

I will miss them greatly. I'm just glad I had the times with them that I did.

(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles