On Thursday, one of My First Wife's Best Friends went to the hospital for tests. Doctor's orders. While she was there in the hospital, she fell and hit her head against something.
Brain damage. Coma. Some time after 10:00 p.m. Friday night, she quietly passed away.
She was only 92 years old and almost five feet tall. She never needed glasses; she lived alone--well, with her cat--cooked her own meals, bathed herself, kept a little garden. She had a walker, but didn't use it. She lost most of her teeth in some kind of an accident several years ago. She beat breast cancer and skin cancer and a horrible cat scratch that cost her a complete blood transfusion. "So what?" she often said.
She was a giver and a helper. Remember the bad earthquake in Haiti? One afternoon after that she worked right alongside everyone else filling bags of food to send to the victims. That was typical of her. We took her to church every Sunday, and every Sunday she thanked us like we had performed the most wonderful favor ever. I baked cakes for her. She liked Lemon cake and occasionally gave me a box of mix. We took her to the doctor(s) and to shopping and out to eat. What a treat it was! We were not the only ones. She left us all with only happy, happy memories. We'll get together with her again.
One day at our church late last summer, while she was still only 91.
Same day. Our pastor's wife. Miss Cleta. My First Wife.
Another special day: about 35 people came to a birthday dinner for her.
She enjoyed sitting with me at the computer and letting me show her my photos.
She always liked this one best. I gave it to her in a frame.