Obituaries

I’ve reached the stage of life when I don’t just read the obituaries in the newspaper everyday. I also maintain a list of names from my past which I Google periodically, since newspapers are no longer adequate for keeping up-to-date with those who are no longer with us. I don’t do my ghoulish Googling on a set schedule: it’s not the first Monday of every month, or anything like that. Though I’m thinking it may be time to consider more regularity as we all get older (Alert: double entendre here intentional). Names are coming – and GOING – on my list with increasing frequency.

If you’re wondering who’s on my list – wondering more especially if YOU are on it – see above.

But no. I’ve blurred the names out of deference to those of my reader friends who may still be saying, “If I die.” My Friend, it’s not IF, but WHEN – and the WHENdow for it gets closer and closer to closed with each passing minute – IF you get my drift.

Even with the blur, however, you can see that the left side, “Still holding on,” is getting much shorter than the right, “Already gone.” This should not be a surprise for those of us mature and wise enough to know how these things work – always flowing left to right. Though those with vision still good enough (squinting may be necessary), will notice one gap on the right, where I realized I’d made a grave (Alert: double entendre here intentional) Google mistake, and a lucky one of you got to move the other way. (Alert: this happens infrequently, so don’t put your hopes on it, IF you don’t want to be disappointed. Though I assure you that disappointment will be the least of your concerns WHEN the window closes.)

But sometimes I don’t find the obituary I’m looking for, even though I Google a hundred ways. In my experience, there are two major reasons why: 1. They're not dead yet; 2. No one remained after them who cared enough to write and publish one. There may also be a few other less likely reasons, but Not yet dead and No one cares are the biggies.

Recently, I had an embarrassing encounter with my reason ONE. I observed to a former colleague that I couldn’t find the obituary of another colleague, graduate of our local university in 1950, retired from our mutual employer (said university) 20 years ago. I felt certain there must be one since she was much loved by many, an active member of her church, and an alumna who’d spent almost her whole life at our university: development offices keep close tabs on such, in case of “bequest maturity.” I wondered why I couldn’t find it.

“Because she’s not dead yet,” the colleague said. Yes, I’m quoting her in my reasons above. “She came to a staff party just last week.”

Not dead yet!? How is that possible? Methuselah, prepare to be deposed.

Our colleague kindly agreed not to mention either my mistake, or my incredulity.

And then there was the evening when my husband, Rick, and I were nesting cozily in our back room sanctuary, far enough from the street that only the most obnoxious traffic noises penetrated, preparing to enjoy our supper of reheated leftovers, the Netflix DVD already popped into the player (this was long ago, before we streamed, or even knew what “streaming” was). Just across the back fence, our neighbor, Vangie’s, house sat dark, as it had sat for months and months. I’d been searching her “name” AND “obituary” for a while. Not unreasonable, I think you’ll agree: we’d attended her 100^th Birthday celebration some years before. We wanted to send condolences to the family. The card, personalized and signed, awaited only an address.

The phone rang. (This was a long time ago, when an instrument, with a wire, sat on the low table between our easy chairs.) Rick picked it up. Then he went white. Over the wire he heard Vangie’s voice, as though calling in from Heaven. (We’ll assume Heaven; she was nice.) As she explained, she’d been living with her daughter/caretaker (83 herself) in a distant city; had come home only for a while to replace her air conditioner: “You really shouldn’t have to do that at 103,” she laughed. She’d decided not to take the extended warranty. Still it was years yet before I found her obituary at last.

Only last week I did find one obit I’d been expecting for a while: that of a former boss from 25 years ago (and more), a woman almost exactly 10 years my senior – and so the closing of the WHENdow to be expected at any time. Though she and I had our clashes - the meeting of two strong (some might say, stubborn) wills grappling in life-or-death struggles) - the tempering passage of so much time made possible a corner-of-my-eye tear. I even wondered if all our strife had really been worth the effort. The issues don’t seem quite so life-or-death now.

For a few I’ve done what I could to fill the gap when I haven’t found their obituary, or not the one I sought: for my dear friend Claudia who killed herself at 31; my childhood friend Reed, taken by AIDS; Fern (remember her?); someone from the distant past.

It’s not that I have some morbid fascination with obituaries. Like most, I never used to read them at all. Also like most – those lucky enough to get old, at least – they’ve taken on a more compelling relevance as the decades have mounted. They’re a memorial, certainly, insubstantial like everything in newspapers (though a little more lasting in the digital age perhaps). But like open caskets and probate courts, they give an irrefutable certainty, mark an undeniable end that helps make moving on possible. Without them, we can find ourselves adrift in the sea of maybe-not.

An obit I’m looking for now will be the final proof that our friend, Ellen, is gone. She lives (lived?) far away, and we knew her only from a couple of fun travel adventures of a couple of weeks each – followed by email exchanges and Substack comments. But we came to build a love for her, even on such a slight foundation. What a sad day it was when she messaged that her cancer had returned. What bursts of hope when she shared news of the next new treatment suggested by her doctors – and then the next. What a blow when she said that they all had failed – that now it was “only a matter of time,” and that the time would be short.

Along the way we continued sending messages, and she continued her trying-to-be-upbeat replies.

Our last message to her:

Hi, Ellen! Just a short note to say we are thinking of you & are sending our love. I am raising a glass of red wine as I hope for your comfort and peace.
Love,
Rick & Randy

And the reply, one of the saddest messages I’ve ever read, the sadder perhaps because so brief and unadorned, but so true to Ellen – sent by Jackie, whom we’ve never met – the kind friend seeing her through last days:

I read Ellen your email, but she is on morphine now. If she weren’t, your email would have made her smile.
Jackie

I’ve only heard third hand, from California, by way of Chicago, that Ellen is really gone, some weeks ago now. We all remember from childhood how unreliable such “playing telephone” news can be, so maybe it’s not true. Maybe Ellen (and all the others) haven’t really …

And so I keep searching for her obituary. With no children and no spouse, and even with kind friend Jackie, it’s likely Ellen falls into my reason No. 2, above: no one left to write and publish one.

But wouldn’t it be lovely if the playing-telephone news were wrong, and I could move Ellen (and everyone) from the right-hand column back to the left? And after all, there’s no obituary, so maybe …