Life goes on ... or not

I saw so little of death when I was growing up. The only funeral I remember attending was my father's, when I was a teen. So I guess I thought I'd live forever.

I've tried to explain death. I can't. The best I can describe it is like a page being torn out of a book. I envy writers who could put it into words. My friend Jolinn explained it as a chain of continuity. The events in one person's life can impact the following generation.

When Jerry died, it was like tearing out a page. His life stopped; mine went on. I learned it does not dishonor the dead to take care of the living, even as we treasure our memories. I realized death would always be a part of life. I had to accept it and move on.

So I had an auction, cleaned house, painted and put my affairs in order. I felt good. I did most of my grieving before Jerry died, and I knew I had to get on with my life. I wasn't lonely, but I was alone. Then once again my life was put on hold as I dealt with cancer and chemo treatments. Though I was weak, I was at peace.

Then Betty died. Of us seven girls, she was the first to go, and she was my favorite. Only two years younger than me, we clung to each other. We spent so much time together. Us adult women would often gather at Mom's. Sometimes Betty and I would get the giggles. No one knew why we couldn't stop laughing, not even Betty and I. But we would only have to look at each other and start laughing hysterically.

During our 20s, only Betty and I lived in this area. We both went through some rough times and we were always there for each other, never judging, loyal, encouraging and loving one another. We were best friends and spent a lot of time together. Later, when we both had RVs, we couples would go to Colorado, fishing. Betty was always cracking jokes, was so cheerful and positive, unlike the rest of our family, with our negative attitude.

Once when Jerry and I were visiting her after the death of her husband, Jerry answered her phone and told her neighbor, "Betty can't come to the phone, she is in the shower."

Her protective friend said to his wife, "Betty has a man in the house."

We got quite a chuckle out of that. But, around Betty, we had lots of chuckles.

When Jerry was dying, Betty called me every day. Then she would apologize for being a pest. I discouraged her from coming, as she lived so far away. She said, "I'm coming. He's my brother."

There was the time she declared she was going to spend some time with Jerry. She came over and put a chair beside his recliner and spent hours just visiting with him. They were so close. But then Betty was close to everyone she loved.

During her memorial service, her family members each mourned alone. There was her husband Larry, her daughter who she had always been so close to (as Brenda was growing up, we sisters worried that this daughter might one day grow rebellious and hurt Betty -- she didn't), her first grandson whom she was so crazy about, yet Betty had enough love to embrace her other grandson, her favorite nephew and special nieces, her birth family (we found out as adults that Betty had been adopted, but that just meant she had more family to love), her friends.

Today I realize my vulnerability. I won't live forever.

Marie Putman is a former Gravette resident and regular contributor to the Westside Eagle Observer. Opinions expressed are those of the author.

Editorial on 10/01/2014