What’s on my mind? I am not a young woman. I feel young, but when I look in the mirror … Well, I’m not. As a woman in her mid-70s, I’ve entered the Crying Season - that sad time of life when beloved friends of a similar age have become less vigorous, are gradually losing their minds to dementia, or are sick or dying.
Yesterday, I had the distinct pleasure of speaking to an exceptional man I deeply admire and respect. He is a good man; a kind man; a generous man. He is now 95. He and his also-exceptional wife have been married 72 years - she, at 17, he at 23.
Many years ago, I met the housekeeper who began working for them when she was 15. She retired at 80. That’s the kind of devotion good and kind and generous people inspire. He told me he’s going to shoot for 100, and after that, 105. I hope he succeeds in that aim.
The world is a lesser place when good people exit it, as they’ve started to do in my little life. People die at every age, of course. The Crying Season is universal. But when it intrudes on your life in ever-greater numbers, it assumes a sobering reality.
I was devastated when a friend two decades my senior died of a brain tumor. We’d lost touch; I wasn’t aware she was sick. It’s been three years; I miss her still. When two other older women dropped of the map, I checked the obits to learn they’d died, and said a little prayer. Their regular phone calls offered such pleasure; if only I’d told them, at the time.
A third - who with her many boyfriends and trilling announcement that: “It’s Lil-yeeee!” - was such fun that I sometimes let her motor-mouth for an hour. She disappeared, too. The was no obituary: It took some sleuthing to learn she’d died. A raven-haired, blue-eyed beauty when she was young, she’d become so stooped she paralleled the floor, yet still attracted men well into her 80s. Her infectious joy inspired love and loyalty. I miss her phone calls, too.
One of my closest, longest friends requires what is euphemistically called “memory care.” Our lives have been intertwined since we were teenagers. Nothing should come as a surprise in the Crying Season, but sadness still seeps into my bones.
A distant friend, 79 this month, is emotionally ill. Watching him struggle is painful.
A pragmatic couple dear to my heart recently wrote the most difficult letter of their lives - telling friends of his soon-to-be fulfilled wish for an assisted death: “After 14 years of valiant effort and dedicated support of the medical community, and in our 38th year together and on our wedding anniversary, (he) will reach the end of (his) increasingly excruciating pain.
“He and I both thank you for the days of his journey when you walked the road with us … So much laughter interspersed with tears and sorrow. So much happiness and wonder! Treasure the memories. They will bring you comfort when you reach your December …”
The Crying Season: It hurts.
© Nicole Parton, 2020
