There’s an anecdote I read once in an early 20th century diary (It might have been A.C. Benson) about a centenarian who lived in a small English village. He had lived for over a hundred years, was confined to his bed, and constantly watched by his two elderly daughters. The rule of the house was that he could never be left alone, so one or the other of the sisters would always be awake and at his bedside. One day a fire broke out just down the lane from them, and both of the women ran outside briefly to watch it. When they went back in to check on their father, they found he had died.
The consensus in the village, according to the diarist, was that their father had seen his opportunity and escaped at last.
I’ve known a few people who lived very long lives and for those who were still aware of their surroundings, there often seemed to be some element of will in their leaving it. My great-grandfather, for instance, was ninety-four when he died in his sleep — which was the way he had prayed to go for most of his life. A woman I know who died in her nineties, decided it was time to go once her mobility became seriously impaired. She was quite matter-of-fact about it. “I told you, I’m not going to be here by then,” she said firmly, when she heard her grand-daughter making plans for a future family event that would include her. (And she wasn’t.) Yet another very, very elderly man I knew died not long after he learned he had Alzheimer’s. It was as though he’d let go of a ledge.
Or perhaps these are just the stories we who are left behind tell ourselves about the very, very aged. Perhaps that is what we prefer to remember after we have lost them.
Pam Troy 