Homecoming: Memorial Re-Union

Death, the most dreaded of evils, is therefore of no concern to us; for while we exist death is not present, and when death is present we no longer exist. It is, therefore, nothing either to the living or to the dead since it is not present to the living, and the dead no longer is.

Epicurus

“I’m coming, Pete,” Eileen proclaimed in a whisper while clasping the photo of her lost love. From late 2020 into early 2021, Eileen held onto the photo with a sincere personal belief in a life after this life, an afterlife. A hope of a reunion with her only, her everything, her someone: The One, to her. A slow slide into a psychogenic cessation of life guiding her. 

On December 20, 2017, Peter died. His body destroyed itself in an autoimmune attack. He was knocked out. Doctors connected him to an assistive machine. It kept his body alive, while ‘asleep.’ His lungs filled with fluid. They needed draining by the machinery of plastic, metal, and electronics. 

Loved ones gathered around. They knew. It was time to begin the end. His body shut off between the morning into the early afternoon with the closing down of the machine keeping his unconscious body alive.

Death, to not be; Pete met the proverbial scythe of the unending eternal. Weeks passed to months and then a few years. Eileen couldn’t manage the pain, the void, the vacuum of Pete’s memories in her. More than 60 years of the union met as a singlet, a widow. 

All unions meet the inevitability of an end with the ever-present two-word question, “Who first?” No matter the depth of the love, the thread-count of the connection, the amiability of the friendship, or the years built after one another. Death cares not for these; lovers do.

In this sense, lovers represent life, itself.

Holding onto a photo of Peter, Eileen met with family members in the early and early-middle parts of February 2021. To reconcile, to meet, to discuss life and love, while drifting in and out of consciousness, she was probably undergoing a psychogenic death. 

Little sleep, no eating or minimal food intake, barely sipping water, the implosion of the self over a bond broken. “I’m coming, Pete,” over and over again. She just wanted to be home because her current house was a stranger’s abode, lonely and alone. 

February 14, 2021, Valentine’s Day – poetically, Eileen Jacobsen died. Maybe, she met her valentine, maybe not. A Sunday departure from the stage. The Thursday before, some grandchildren visited her. 

She turned to one and said, “Oh, hi, Scott.” A greeting meeting the last visit before the final, “Bye.”