Rosemary minutes after she died

In my two years of studying philosophy in Mexico City in 1962 under Ramón Xirau, it meant and means that my thoughts about death are always there and particularly because of my many years of living in Mexico. I can quote Epicurus.

Three years after the death of my wife Rosemary on December 8, 2020, I constantly remember her and note her absent presence all day, every day, at home, in our car, in the garden, and all the places we went together in Vancouver.

I give no importance if anybody cares about my usual subject in my blogs about how I miss Rosemary. What is important is that my constant thought, while a sad one, helps me figure out death and my forthcoming one. And yet it is impossible for me to grasp how someone alive with me for 52 years is not around, not present, not alive, not there. My peripheral vision notes the empty spot on the bed where she always was.

Last night the thought on the different kinds of death came to me when my lights were out.

You can die instantly in an accident, or you can have a heart attack in your sleep. What is death to a soldier in battle not knowing if he will die that day? What is death to someone alive who has been given a couple of months to live?

My Rosemary was told she was going to die. She sent a lovely message to our eldest granddaughter telling her she had little time and wanted to have some moments with her. She even asked her when it would be convenient for her.

And lastly what is it like when you feel and understand, while in bed, that you are going to die that day, that hour and even in those minutes?

I had the experience of being witness to that twice. My mother was a hypochondriac, even though she had plenty of reasons for feeling sick.  She had Meniere’s Disease.  In our family we called her Sarah Bernhardt because of her constant telling us how sick she was.

There she was in her bed in Mexico City in 1972 in the presence of Rosemary. She told us “This time I am going to die.” Minutes later she breathed in and died. We could not find a doctor in the neighbourhood so a veterinarian declared her dead.

The second death I witnessed was that of Rosemary. My two daughters and our eldest granddaughter Rebecca were there by her bed. She asked, “Am I dying?” I could not answer and minutes later she was dead.

Can we ever know what it feels when you are about to die and you ask people around you if you are in fact dying?

In the middle of the night last night I Messengered my two daughters as to who closed Rosemary's eyes. My eldest daughter asked why I was asking. I told her I was going to write a blog about Hollywood beside death scenes. The nurse who was supposed to treat Rosemary arrived after Rosemary had died. According to my eldest daughter it was she who closed her eyes.

All the above is a reality that is as far removed from all those Hollywood films deathbed scenes.

And so I think about death every day. As my lymphoma-sick male cat Niño sticks to me like glue I wonder if he does not need to ask me if he is dying. He knows.

He and his sister Niña as they lie on me during the day and at night on the bed are direct live routes to my Rosemary. In the first few months after Rosemary died I would loudly say, “Rosemary.”  They would look up at me. Now, it would seem they have forgotten her. They are lucky. Am I?