My next-door neighbor Mary died Tuesday night at the age of 89, and this morning I attended her service at the Catholic church where she was a longtime member. Officially, the service was called a “Liturgy of Christian Death and Burial,” and I haven’t attended one like it before. Many words of comfort were spoken, and it made me wish I were a true believer. (I’m a Unitarian Universalist, and our beliefs, such as they are, aren’t nearly so reassuring.)
I’ve watched Mary slide downhill over the past couple of years. Her daughter Wendy has been her live-in caregiver, and she’s kept me and my husband up to date on the many changes in Mary’s health – the operations and procedures, whether and how they worked, the trips to the hospital, the transfer to a nursing home, then home again. Ultimately, she died in a hospital – they’d been going to move her to a Hospice, but she was too weak to withstand the transfer.
Looking out our windows, seeing the ambulance in Mary’s driveway yet one more time, I’ve often wondered whether I would want to hang on under the same compromised circumstances, but who’s to say? I won’t know till I get there, and I hope that’s at least a couple of decades away. These are the kinds of questions I address in my mystery novel Eldercide, which revolves around a home health care agency, its staff and clients. But it feels highly inappropriate to discuss my book now, in the wake of Mary’s death. I’ll save that for another day.
Today’s experiences raised some thorny questions for me as a writer. Sitting alone during the service, I took voluminous notes, and eventually they may find their way into my fiction, but it’s still far too early. And how much to share online? I considered posting Mary’s full name and part of her obituary, but I didn’t feel I had the right, not without her family’s consent, although they probably would have been pleased. Mary lived a full and fruitful life, with five children and eight grandchildren. Shortly before Mary died, Wendy told her how lucky she was to have had Mary as a mother, and Mary said, “No, I’m the lucky one, to have had you.”
Etan Patz wasn’t so lucky. Thirty years ago, the six-year-old boy disappeared from his SoHo loft, and the tragic case will be revisited tonight at 10:00 p.m. on ABC’s 20/20. I have a special interest in the program: we lived in the same coop loft complex as the Patz family, and our daughter was in the daycare program run by Etan’s mother Julie. I suspect I’ll be posting more about Etan tomorrow.