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Only one person in my family lived that long. My great grandmother, Louison Boullion Mire, lived to 93, and she had Alzheimer's as well. Once it set in, she began to speak only in French (her mother tongue) and was unable to recognize anything or anyone. When she died, no one cried. It wasn't that she wasn't loved - my grandmother and my great aunt spent countless days at the nursing home with her, and loved her dearly, despite her flaws. But at the funeral, no one cried. And really, why would they? She was 93 - she had outlived her husband, and had survived to see her children become grandparents. It wasn't as if she had died in her prime. She had suffered for several years with Alzheimer's. She ceased to be the same person. When she passed, it was more of a relief to her family and almost a feeling that one was glad she was out of her misery. But no crying. And no elaborate funeral. And no day off, either.
My grandfather died of pancreatic cancer when he was 84. We watched him rapidly deteriorate and vomit out his insides and his body and soul finally give out. At his funeral, there was not one dry eye. Sobbing was almost universal. It was tough for everyone close to him to get over his passing. He died before we were ready to let go in a violent and horrible manner. But there was no day off for him. Not even for us. I went back to school the next day, depressed as Hell.
On the phone with my mother, who liked Reagan (she isn't political), last night, we discussed the coverage. She was fascinated by the coverage. "He was 93 for Christ's sake!" And you know what, she's right. Most of us won't reach that age. At 93, death is right behind you. It shouldn't come as a shock or surprise when you die. Especially if you haven't really been there for 10 years.
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