Timely Death

On a day like today I know why I am unemployed. I rose early after a restless night, I struggled to finish a routine workout, I took time to chop vegetables for a restaurant style salad, then I migrated outside with my lunch, and slowly worked my way through an over-sized plate during an extended conversation with my mom. For the rest of the afternoon, I hardly moved--Mom came and went as her chores allowed while I sat there on the wrought iron deck furniture, engrossed in a novel. In a few minutes it will be time for dinner. And on a day like today I do not care one bit.

This morning, I returned home (from the gym) to the bittersweet news, my Great-Uncle F had passed away. It seems terrible to admit that out loud, but it is true. He has spent the later half of my life thus far deteriorating--in memory, thinking, and behavior patterns. The cause of death would be pneumonia, not the Alzheimer's disease that took his mind (from him, from us) sometime ago, along with his quality of life. (And arguably the quality of Great-Aunt D's, his wife of over 60 years, own life as well.) It was time for Great-Uncle F to go. Time for him. Time for Great-Aunt D. After his mind left, we all sort of waited for his body to do the same. I have not had the unimaginable task of watching him become a skeleton of his former energetic self. My Great-Aunt D has. She has demonstrated love, in sickness and health--visiting him day-after-day for the past several years; she was loyal to the bitter end. Bitter. Death has a way of making me bitter. Sweet. It is sweet we can trudge on together in peace, knowing he--mind and body--rests in peace.  

Once I became of age for storing memories--his later lively years--grown-ups still bored me, leaving me with few personal memories of a great man. I will remember him as the best dressed man in town. This though is not even that personal, most of Greater Detroit will tell you F.C.A. was a stylish man. Then, of course, more tragically in the brunt of Great-Uncle F's disease I will remember the first time I witnessed his inability to recall his nephew--my dad. To bear first-hand witness to the devastation Alzheimer's has on families broke me. I cannot imagine how Dad felt in that moment... as time went on, or even now. It can hurt to be forgotten by someone you met only once before. To be forgotten by your own uncle--the same person who lived right next door as you grew from infant to toddler to child to teenager--is unimaginable. 

In October I was able to travel the distance to Michigan to close the book, to celebrate the the story of Great-Uncle J. It is March now and I am in a similar place. I should go to Michigan and attend the funeral. I have prior obligations... road-blocking my attendance at this weekend's ceremony. I want to be there for my Great-Aunt D as I was for B. But I need to be here. I needed my mom this afternoon to reassure me I was indeed needed here. Even when the time is right, death has a way of being untimely, for those left behind--for me... and for my guilty conscience.  

(I could not find a place to work this in, yet feel it is worthy to note: Today, March 13, happens to be my dear friend's 25th birthday, marking this the third consecutive death of one of my people falling on the birth-date of another one of my people.)