The Last Furlong

Comments on the race of life.

Counting friends

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Occasionally I send an ecard to old friends and acquaintances that we know. It simply asks them how they are and tells them briefly how we are. I ask for an update from them.

This last year, some loving partners, unknown relatives or strangers to us, have replied with the news that whoever it was, has died. In fact, this last year was a bad year for deaths. I have had to delete old friends from my ecard address book. But I’ve left them in my email contacts, so that sometime, I can browse through it, and be reminded of their friendship again.

No one died of Covid.

But how they died was admirable. Most, simply snuffed it. They just pushed off. Quick. Easy. Efficiently, with no fuss. Sensible people.

One was found dead in his chair with the TV on by relatives. He wasn’t old.

Another noticed her hubby was dead during a conversation with him as they sat in the lounge, in the sunshine.

My fit walking friend died on the operating table during a not very serious op.

Your heart beats. And then it doesn’t. My rotund, huggy friend died as the ambulance reached the hospital. No hospital resuscitation  ordeal for her. She must have been pleased. She dreaded that.

On the whole, our friends have shown extreme wisdom. They just went.

Now we are waiting for another death. Our lovely considerate neighbour is dying. She is ninety. She has been absent from chats over the fence, jam and pickle, flowers, plants, and gossip swaps for two months now. Alone, in an end of life care ward, not being able to see her family, she needs to get on now and DO it.

“Best get on with it.” That’s what you would have said to me over the fence, Margaret.

Very sensible.

Author: Elizabeth

I'm someone also pounding the Path, just like you.

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