Two lovely women...with dementia...but still very much alive.

I remember the night Mary died. She was Jeanne’s roommate. Five years ago. Death was becoming new to me. More profound. I was seeing it up close at Birchwood, the nursing home. I used to distance myself from death. I didn’t watch people die. I never fought in a war, thank goodness. Oh, I visited the sick and the infirm. A little bit. But I tried to avoid facing the full scope of death. I mourned the death of our many cats and dogs. But maybe I distanced myself when real people died. Subconsciously. I avoided funerals. Easier not to get too close. I couldn’t avoid getting close to our pets. Lived with ‘em every day. Same goes for Jeanne. I got real close. The way husband and wife, two lovers, should. I always cried when a pet died. I grieved for days. But seldom did I cry when a real person died. I didn’t cry when my mother died. At age 88. I figured she had a long and a good life. But I cried a little bit when Mary died. I had come to know Mary. I watched her die. Slowly. Oh, not at the very moment of death. I was out with Jeanne. On a wheelchair romp. And it’s quite possible that when Mary took her last breath, I was thinking of her. I remember talking to the Creator that night. On that walk. And I was thinking of a miracle. Of Mary living forever. But the more I reflected, the more I wondered if we live on the edge of something grand and glorious. A spirit world. I wondered if death is a figment of our imaginations. I remembered my first encounter, my first impression of death. As a youngster. Maybe 3 or 4. My aunt took me to a funeral. At the graveside. In Chicago. Whose funeral, I don’t know. Auntie Anna told me that someone had died, and that when that happens, they’re buried. I saw a woman. On a bench. Weeping. I assumed she was the “dead” one. That she didn’t want to be buried. That’s why she must be crying. I hadn’t yet perceived death as a notion of nothingness. I thought it odd that this woman had to be buried. She looked very much alive. Still able to cry. To protest. Yes, I was confused. Maybe still am. Seems to me I wasn’t born with a solid notion of death. I had to be educated. Informed. To this day, I wonder if we were left to our own devices, alone in this world, free of outside influence, would we assume that we live forever? That so-called ‘death’ is unreal? That it is merely a transition to another dimension? That it’s not to be feared? That death is no more than a new beginning? Oh, well, I have strange thoughts. And back to dear Mary. Yes, I cried at the passing of another human being I had come to know. And when the tears come now, they are tears of happiness. Not sadness. Yes, I have fond memories of dear Mary. And she’s even as real as my pets. Someone like Jeanne. When I played music, Jeanne would sometimes sing along. And Mary would get up and dance. What a sight. Two lovely women…with dementia…but still very much alive. –Jim Broede