I grew up in a little village in rural Oxfordshire, about 15 miles from the city.  It was a small enough village that everyone knew each other; each person had a role to play and each child was literally raised by the whole village.  We had an attorney living down the street, an accountant next door to him, a retired district nurse (who happened to be my mum's best friend and who played a large part in my childhood), a farmer, a policeman, a baker and a butcher - but no candlestick maker, unfortunately.

I'm of an age now where the people who helped raise me are elderly, and some of them are in ill-health.  Every time mum rings me she keeps me up to date with the goings on of those folks, and sometimes she has bad news for me.

Like today.  I had called her to tell her about my physical, and she said "I'm glad you rang; I was going to call you this afternoon with a bit of bad news - Margaret Smith died this morning."

Margaret Smith was a big, brash woman who lived down the street and around the corner from us.  She had 5 children - Eddie, 'little' Margaret, Barry, Janet and Mary.  Eddie was the same age as my big brother, and Mary was a year older than me.  They all lived in a 3 bedroomed home with their dad, George, who worked at the Army depot down the road and who rode his ancient bicycle to work everyday (and who wore bicycle clips around his ankles to keep oil from the chain getting on his pant legs).

Margaret didn't really have any friends.  She knew a lot of people and was always willing to have a natter in the street with the local ladies, and she occasionally kept an eye on me if mum and dad went into town on a Saturday afternoon, but friends - none to speak of.  She was prickly, see.  Difficult to get close to.  She said she was 'honest', but mum and I think that she used that as an excuse to be rude. 

Margaret's husband, George, passed away from liver cancer three years ago.  At the end of last year, Mary's husband (a kid who I went to school with) was diagnosed with liver cancer, too.  And, a few weeks after that, Margaret herself was diagnosed with Lou Gherig's Disease.  ALS.  Amyotrohpic Lateral Sclerosis.  A death sentence, in other words.

Margaret was also a proud woman.  After her diagnosis, she had to have a CNA come in and care for her every day and she hated that.  She hated having to rely on someone else - she refused to move her bed downstairs and struggled up into it every night.  She also refused to use a commode - she was determined to use the toilet upstairs and felt like that was the last bastion of her dignity.

Yesterday morning, she soiled herself.  The neighbor (a very 'sweet' man, if you know what I mean, who I've known my whole life, found her in tears.  He called for help, and helped get her cleaned up.  He was the one who passed on the news to my mum, actually -he said that he saw the defeat in her eyes and knew that she'd given up. She knew that she would be unable to maintain her dignity, so she admitted defeat and died.

Brash and prickly she may have been, but she was a nice lady underneath it all, and I think that her death is a happy release.  She still had clarity of mind, you see.  Her body had failed her, but her mind was still sharp - and it was trapped inside that useless body.  Death released her, and she's free now.

May your sould fly free, Ms Smith (we never call mum's friends and acquaintances by their first names, it's just ingrained that it's not the thing to do).  Know that you're remembered fondly and that you shaped more lives than you know.

I feel sorry for Mary, though.  Losing a parent is hard enough, but losing one when you're faced with losing your husband too.....that's tough. 

My prayers are with the both of them.