Dropped Dead at Her Feet

All we know is that she was a 41-year-old physical therapist. Still young -- a baby, really -- especially compared to the men and women she was helping, elderly people in their eighties and nineties who were recuperating from fractures and paralysis and falls. People who needed her help to learn, once more, how to walk, how to move, how to live life. She was a young woman half their age. A young woman without their experiences, without their wisdom, without their years. But at a time in their lives when they were without many things -- their physical prowess, their ability to live on their own, and for some, the capacity to make their own decisions -- they had something she didn’t have: a long life.   

While helping those who had fallen, she fell. Simply dropped down to the ground, and was dead. Practically at my mother-in-law’s feet.

How odd that we wonder more about her now than we did when she was alive. Who was she? What did she like to do when she wasn’t working? Who loved her? Whom did she love?

We don’t know, and we probably never will. All we know is that she had a heart attack and died.

But many were impacted by her death. Many wonder about her, think about her, wish for her. Some are curious, many are upset. Some are confused, many are sad. Some don’t understand, but many try.

Life, which we try so hard to control, can’t always be controlled. Life, which we try so hard to understand, can’t always be understood. Life, which we try so hard to live to the fullest, can’t always be lived long.

These are things only God knows.