I went to a funeral today on behalf of one of my employees. I didn't know his mother - who by the way, died of a massive stroke last Friday. It was a small funeral home in a small town with a small crowd. 14 people were there. She was 84 and had been stricken with Alzheimers for the last five years of her life - which turned into a living hell for those around her.
14 people? Then I thought....at 84 years she probably outlived most of her friends, and would she even have any left after dealing with that wretched disease? 14 photos were on the wall of her - from birth in 1926, married in '46, a college degree in '54, and so on. A woman spoke, and told of her memories of being the daughter. It was ponies and rainbows. Pink lemonade, sunshine and sparkles. It sounded opaque, shallow, and contrived. The bitch didn't thank her brother once. Saving the details - let's just say she was more concerned with the will than her family.
Her son - the person who works for me - stood up, visibly strong but shaken, and told what I thought was a brutally honest account of what it took to take care of his mother. He was committed to not putting her in a nursing home - no matter the cost. He didn't share any memories of when he was young, or the things they did together before she got sick. Nada. Oh he was sad for her death, but it was clear that the weight of caring for her was gone, and it gave a newfound strength. It was powerful. It was then that I realized I was surrounded by her caregivers. Nurses, specialists, and an ambulance driver who had all too often taken to and from the local hospital.
Unceremoniously, it was over in 38 minutes, and I haven't even processed what any of this symbolizes. I was on my way back to work thinking about D, Lyza, work, my family, and sneaking a ride in before dark.....life goes on.
No comments:
Post a Comment