Not Ready

Yesterday, Herself's father provided Uncle S.'s phone number and requested that Herself give him a call.  The family is coming together to make sure Uncle S. has regular contact with people who care for him, as he begins to learn to move through the days without Aunt M.  Herself's siblings reached out to him over the past few days; it was Herself's turn.

She stared at the phone for some time before dialing.  What does one say to the newly grieving? She wishes she were closer to Uncle S. To be able to arrive on his doorstep, to bring food and to hold his hand and listen, would be so much simpler.  She resorted to the plain and simple truth:  "I'm calling to check on you and see how you're doing, and to let you know I'm thinking about you."

Her first thought, when Uncle S. spoke:  he sounds so very old.  Then again, he is nearly 88 years of age.

It was a short but warm call.  He is doing as well as can be expected; he said that he keeps busy during the day, but that the nights are difficult.  I imagine they must be.  Herself promised to call again next week, and to send him a few pictures she'd recently found from a family reunion several years ago.  Hopefully, they will provide him with some good remembrances.

Herself's mother is taking the loss of Aunt M. quite hard.  At 75, Mother is no longer young; within the past several years, her close friends of decades have lost husbands and have been diagnosed with life-threatening illnesses.  Mother has her own age-related health concerns - osteopenia and high blood pressure, among others.  Herself always suspects that Mother feels the spectre of The Grim Reaper hovering nearby, watching, waiting, just behind her. Herself does not know what to say to help Mother be less afraid.

Herself idly contemplates her own mortality, too.  She knows that statistically, the odds are good that she will continue to occupy her spot on this globe for a couple of decades more.  Nevertheless, she knows that all of us may be struck down at any time - when one's number is up, one's number is up.  She hopes that all the Offspring will be launched into adulthood before she shuffles off this mortal coil.  She is concerned about how they would manage, should something untoward happen to her.  And how would Beloved Husband fare? So many little ordinary things that Herself handles for all of them.  They would have to attend to the details themselves.

She thinks that perhaps she needs to write out more specific information for them to use in the case of her untimely demise:  these are the bills, this is when they are due, this is the online banking password, this is how to access the college funds, this is the phone number of the life insurance person, this is the contact information for the maid service and the pet-sitting service, this is what medicine you take when you have a cold, this is how the new fancy washing machine works.  Would instructions even help? Or is she deluding herself that they would even need such instructions?  They're intelligent people; they can figure things out.

Truth be told, she knows they'd probably get along just fine without her, though he hates the idea of them having to do so. It is her job -- and her pleasure -- to look after them. She does not want to leave the task unfinished.

She's written brief notes for all of her important people, and put the notes into envelopes to be distributed if necessary.  Yet written words fall so incredibly short of all she would like them to know.  How could half a dozen sentences be sufficient to tell them how unique and wonderful they are, and how much they have meant to her?  Impossible task.

She hopes that somehow, they know.