On occasions I write, I find it cathartic. When my aunt passed away I wrote the following.
I was reluctant to share my thoughts with any of you who may read this, friends have continued to encourage me to do. I do not presume to understand what you are going through, but hope you will find some comfort in my inadequate words.
The Cruel Mind
An old woman died today, actually that is not strictly true, she died about a week ago. Her death was neither expected nor unexpected, at 86 years of age it was just the way of things. For the most part her passing was not marked by this world, maybe a small paragraph in the local newspapers obituary column and that is about it. In the closing years of her life, her circle of friends and acquaintances gradually became smaller, in part because they passed away, in part because she went to prison. Not a prison of bars and warders, not punishment for some heinous crime, but the prison of the mind. The crime? getting older and once convicted; the sentence began with slight confusion, lost keys, not being able to find the right word, not recognizing a face. As the days, months and years of the sentence are served the prisoner slowly loses the rights they gained so many years ago when they graduated from adolescence to adulthood, who they mixed with, the food they ate, the movies that watched, a glass of wine,voting, and may others, eventually they find themselves in solitary, the solitary of their mind. Occasionally they breakout, recognizing a friendly face, but all too quickly, they are recaptured and the door is slammed firmly shut.
It’s a prison our generation is becoming more and more familiar with, for many of our grandparents, elder parents, aunts and uncles are spending the latter years of their lives there, and we are given the dubious joy of watching them serve their life sentence. Just as the families of the “guests” in Bedlam we try to make them comfortable and then silently weep when we are not recognized.
As to be expected, there were few at the crematorium to weep for this old lady, someone from the care home, where she spent the last few months of her life, someone from the solicitor’s office, who have been handling her affairs, my sister and the old lady’s niece. There was no one from the Fire Service where her husband, Bill, had worked for the better part of 30 years; my guess is that they did not know that she had died. After all, Bill passed away some years ago, and with his passing Joyce’s connection with the service quickly melted away. I am sure that they would have been there had they know. There was no one from her church, she sort of lost touch with her parish church when she went into hospital, so that is not surprising. By and large the rest of her friends have either passed on or are in-firmed and could not attend either. According to my sister, the minister did a nice job of reviewing Aunty Joyce’s life, where she went to school, the plumbing supply house she work at and her marriage to Uncle Bill. Bill and Joyce did not have any children just old Bob, the family dog, which had passed on years ago. So that was about that, except the minster commented on how much she enjoyed the letters she received in the care home from Victor, how she looked forward to them, saved them and re-read them. Somewhere in midst of the confusion created by her mental prison there was a spark of clarity, which shone on my letters to Aunty Joyce and it means the world to me!
I don’t write this to praise myself for writing to Aunty Joyce, it’s just that I can’t write to Aunty Joyce, and even if I could, I am not sure I could either trust the post office to deliver to her new address, or afford the postage
, but I can write to you. I know that you have a family member who is in a similar prison as Aunty Joyce was. So when you wonder if your efforts are recognized, maybe my story of Aunty Joyce will bring you a little hope and comfort.
Thank you for taking the time to hear my thoughts I hope they helped.
The Wee Man
I was reluctant to share my thoughts with any of you who may read this, friends have continued to encourage me to do. I do not presume to understand what you are going through, but hope you will find some comfort in my inadequate words.
The Cruel Mind
An old woman died today, actually that is not strictly true, she died about a week ago. Her death was neither expected nor unexpected, at 86 years of age it was just the way of things. For the most part her passing was not marked by this world, maybe a small paragraph in the local newspapers obituary column and that is about it. In the closing years of her life, her circle of friends and acquaintances gradually became smaller, in part because they passed away, in part because she went to prison. Not a prison of bars and warders, not punishment for some heinous crime, but the prison of the mind. The crime? getting older and once convicted; the sentence began with slight confusion, lost keys, not being able to find the right word, not recognizing a face. As the days, months and years of the sentence are served the prisoner slowly loses the rights they gained so many years ago when they graduated from adolescence to adulthood, who they mixed with, the food they ate, the movies that watched, a glass of wine,voting, and may others, eventually they find themselves in solitary, the solitary of their mind. Occasionally they breakout, recognizing a friendly face, but all too quickly, they are recaptured and the door is slammed firmly shut.
It’s a prison our generation is becoming more and more familiar with, for many of our grandparents, elder parents, aunts and uncles are spending the latter years of their lives there, and we are given the dubious joy of watching them serve their life sentence. Just as the families of the “guests” in Bedlam we try to make them comfortable and then silently weep when we are not recognized.
As to be expected, there were few at the crematorium to weep for this old lady, someone from the care home, where she spent the last few months of her life, someone from the solicitor’s office, who have been handling her affairs, my sister and the old lady’s niece. There was no one from the Fire Service where her husband, Bill, had worked for the better part of 30 years; my guess is that they did not know that she had died. After all, Bill passed away some years ago, and with his passing Joyce’s connection with the service quickly melted away. I am sure that they would have been there had they know. There was no one from her church, she sort of lost touch with her parish church when she went into hospital, so that is not surprising. By and large the rest of her friends have either passed on or are in-firmed and could not attend either. According to my sister, the minister did a nice job of reviewing Aunty Joyce’s life, where she went to school, the plumbing supply house she work at and her marriage to Uncle Bill. Bill and Joyce did not have any children just old Bob, the family dog, which had passed on years ago. So that was about that, except the minster commented on how much she enjoyed the letters she received in the care home from Victor, how she looked forward to them, saved them and re-read them. Somewhere in midst of the confusion created by her mental prison there was a spark of clarity, which shone on my letters to Aunty Joyce and it means the world to me!
I don’t write this to praise myself for writing to Aunty Joyce, it’s just that I can’t write to Aunty Joyce, and even if I could, I am not sure I could either trust the post office to deliver to her new address, or afford the postage
, but I can write to you. I know that you have a family member who is in a similar prison as Aunty Joyce was. So when you wonder if your efforts are recognized, maybe my story of Aunty Joyce will bring you a little hope and comfort.Thank you for taking the time to hear my thoughts I hope they helped.
The Wee Man
