missing you

I will miss you, she said.

I stifled a laugh. It seemed odd, to think of being missed. Not quite the same as thinking of events that you will miss being a part of, like seeing your grandchildren grow up, or being around for your daughter's wedding.

She can not cry, I was told. If she gets emotional, she cannot breathe. So, I did not want to say "I will miss you, too". Did not want to admit that this would be our last visit. Did not want to dwell on her imminent passing.

I have known Mrs Epp for almost all the 14 years I have lived here. She is my oldest patient and would be 96 at her next birthday. But she will not see her next birthday. For most of the past year we have had a standing appointment, every 3 weeks (or more frequently as needed) and I have seen her becoming frailer and smaller with each visit. Yet, until December, she always looked forward to the massage - such as I could give her.

When I got the response from her daughter saying it would be good to visit but that she may pass away that night, or tomorrow... or next week... I knew that, snowstorm or not, I would drive the 30 minutes into the city to see her.

Our appointments over the years have always included an extra hour or so of health talk and pleasantries and an examination of her latest knitting/crocheting/tatting project. She had a computer long before I did and was excited to show me what she had learned to do on it. Whenever she had a new health issue, she spent hours researching it on the internet. She was almost giddy at how easy it was to keep in touch with her far flung family. I followed her as she resolutely moved herself into an 'independent living' centre long before it was really necessary. I used her as an inspiration for my parents when they refused to even consider moving into a seniors home even when it was so plainly necessary. Three times she moved, each time a little bit closer to her daughter and farther away from her old friends. She was fortunate to have the finances to live in beautiful surroundings and to have round the clock care when she needed it. Still, she has lingered long enough.

I don't have the strength to give you a hug. So, I reached towards her and pressed my cheek against hers. A little later, after waking up more, some morphine, a new comfortable position, she brightened and found the strength for a hug. An embrace that I wished would end before my tears came. I must not cry. She must not cry.

Mrs Epp, I will miss you. Dearly.

Comments are not necessary. I needed to write this out for myself.

And I needed to share it with my far flung friends.

spider legs

I will admit to not being a fan of either real or sculptural arachnids.

And I am not sure I can say I enjoy the work of Louise Bourgeois whose pieces tend to be rather disturbing and intense. But I certainly admire the artist who has endured and was still creating well into her 90s when she died of a heart attack (at age 98). She wasn't recognized much for her work until she was in her 60s, but graciously stated that "being ignored in the 1950s and 1960s was a bit of a blessing in disguise as it allowed [her] to work undisturbed".

She sees the spider image as a protector - well, okay, they do eat mosquitos which we all agree we want to be rid of - and as a mother figure (see the eggs?) She created these huge creatures as an homage to her own mother who created tapestries and, like a spider, was a weaver.

It is a shame that, so often is the case, we do not know much about artists until obituaries and retrospectives of their work appear when they die. I would never have heard of her except I hated (and yet was fascinated by) that damn spider outside the National Gallery and looked up the artist. Yet, as much as I cannot feel any love for this massive metal sculpture that you are forced to endure as you enter the gallery, I admire its structure. I admire its immense size. I admire the symbolism Ms Bourgeois draws out of the spider - as the protector, the creator of webs, just like drawing (just like Charlotte, the only good spider I can think of).

And that, until her heart attack last week, she was still working on her creations. This site includes a very good collection of her art.

age is relevant, or not

Barely 3 weeks ago, the last surviving Canadian Veteran of WWI, Jack Babcock passed away at age 109.

On Sunday, the oldest Canadian and American woman, Mary Josephine Ray, died at age 114 years, 294 days. On the same day, the oldest African American woman, Daisey Bailey, also died at age 113 years, 342 days. She became the fourth oldest person in the world when, in January, another 114 year old, Maggie Renfro, passed away.

And with them go all their memories of an era very few of us can imagine.

Hardships, endurances, loves, wars, inventions, agonies and ecstasies.

We are amazed by the speed and intricacies of the internet.

They were amazed by the invention of electricity.

My parents both lived to their 90s. My father had health issues for most of my life, several of which could have claimed his life, but didn't. He spent many years in and out of various hospitals, but no matter how many times he wished to die, his body stubbornly continued to fight death. My mother had a few health issues, though none of them were life threatening until the last two weeks of her life.

With such genes coursing through my body, I hope I have invested wisely. One of my greater fears is outliving my money. I have no children to take me into their care (although that is never a guarantee) and no spouse to resent my dependence on them (also not a guarantee, though more likely than not to happen).

We've all seen the statistics for our respective countries - we are an ever aging population the world over.

As an aside, while writing this, I was also doing laundry.

There is a bookshelf with a variety of reading material to be shared.... this is what I found sitting on top.

Art Linkletter himself is still alive at age 97!

I am not sure I would want to live to 114 years. Or even 100 years. Though getting that letter from the Queen would be nice. Oh wait, she'd have to live to be 132...

In the meantime, I just want to make it to next Sunday.