my memory is not as sharp as it used to be. also, my memory is not as sharp as it used to be.

it's a bright spring day, 1988, and i can actually feel the hot edge of summer approaching -- something we have all to infrequently here in the pacific northwest. i can tell it's going to be a great day and i let ted, my partner on the ambulance, know it. he frowns and flips me off.

people think i'm a pessimist, (i prefer to be called a realist), but they haven't met ted. ted will complain about anything and everything -- work, our chief, his friends, his enemies, my driving, my patient care -- i know he'll complain to the undertaker at his own funeral. at least he doesn't complain about anybody behind their back. he's got no problem telling you exactly what he thinks about you. which probably explains why his nose is bent just slightly to the right.

it's been a busy morning. ted and i have just finished the paperwork on our last three calls -- all between 0800 and 1200. each one required a transport to the hospital and just as we were clearing the hospital we would get the next call. i love this work, but sometimes you want a little down time between calls just to catch your breath or pee.

we decide to go to the chicken drive-in for lunch. it's on the west edge of the fire district, but well within our response area. actually, the whole fire district is in our response area today because we're the only two on duty. the drive-in is a well-know landmark here. for years kids have been stealing the giant white chicken that perches on the roof, observing all in its sight with a slightly bemused look and smirk on it's face -- yes, bemused and smirk -- and hiding it as a senior prank. but like a homing pigeon, it always finds its way back about a week later, usually just a little banged up.

but just as we leave the station our pagers squawk again: man down, unknown medical. these types of calls can be anything -- a guy sleeping in his yard, cardiac arrest, electrocutions, assault, overdose -- anything. as we go en route dispatch has little more to offer, stating that the calling party seems confused.

it's ted's turn to tech, and mine to drive, and we come up with a game plan while responding; ted will grab the jump kit and defibrillator, i get the oxygen, suction, clipboard and portable radio. we'll both start with patient care if ted needs help, and then i'll get more info from family and bystanders, if there are any.

it's any easy drive -- mid-week, mid-day, and little traffic. we're headed to the most rural area of our fire district, and ted is double-checking our route in the map book. sometimes in this area the roads stop and start again in a different block. avenues become drives and streets become places, and then start over again.

as we get close i slow down, looking for the address on the mailbox, and i still almost miss the driveway. this house obviously gets very few visitors. the trees and brush are overgrown on the edges of the driveway, it's full of chuckholes, and the yellow grass growing down the middle is tall and gone to seed. there's no way we can avoid scratching the ambulance and we both know we'll be spending some time re-waxing the rig during the next week. the drive to the house is long and slow and i know it will be uncomfortable for the patient strapped to our gurney when we drive out.

suddenly, rounding a tight corner, we break into a clearing and find the house. this place is old, maybe well over a hundred years, and i'm pretty sure that this house was built when the property was first homesteaded. it's worn, but well-maintained -- part log cabin, part lean-to, part shed -- as each addition was added over the years. there's no paint left on the siding and the cedar shake roof has a couple inches of moss crowning it.

the driveway brings us to the back porch where we see a man lying on the porch, face down, near the neatly-stacked woodpile, a wheelbarrow on it's side near him. there's an elderly woman standing over him, holding her hands to the side of her face. i can hear her calling to him, but he's not answering -- or moving.

i bring the ambulance to a stop and we grab gear and head to our patient. but there's nothing we can do for the man. it looks like he's been down for quite some time. he's pale and cool, with some mottling. no pulse. no respirations. ted calls me off, and it's decided ted will take care of contacting the medical examiner and law enforcement -- protocol in this type of call -- and i will take care of the elderly woman.

i introduce myself and ask her her name. then i explain that i'm sorry, but there's really nothing we can do for the man, who i find is her husband, as we had expected. she appears confused, and i'm not sure if she can't hear me or is in shock from the experience.

i lead her into the house to get us out of the sun. the inside is just like the outside -- old, well worn, and well taken care of, very clean. the furniture might have been new in 1950. we step into the kitchen and sit at the table. there are only two chairs. she moves comfortably to one chair, the one she's probably sat in every morning for the last 50 years. i hesitate, but eventually sit in the other. i can smell the soup on the stove she was cooking for lunch. she tells me the vegetables in the soup are from last year's garden.

and i ask her what happened.

she tells me that her husband went out to work in the garden this morning. she thinks he must have come back and laid down on the porch to sleep because he was tired. she couldn't wake him so she got him a glass of water and set it beside him for when he woke up. hours later he still wasn't awake, she became afraid, and called 911.

i reach across the table and take her hands, which are folded in front of her. i stare at them and see how knotted and arthritic they are and i think about how much work they've done and how hard it must have been.

not knowing what to say, i look across the kitchen into their living room. there are no pictures of family, only a few old photos of her and her husband, taken when they were very young -- one, probably a photo of them at their wedding. no pictures of children, grandchildren, or great-grandchildren. above the mantle are a few knick knacks, shells, and driftwood. i realize it's just been the two of them all these years. no children, maybe just a few friends.

i look back at her and study her face. she's quite old -- at least 80 -- and very frail. she had trouble walking to the kitchen and now i clearly see the crippling arthritis which has taken her. her back is curved, shoulders drooped, and has that hump on her back that always reminds me to stand up straight whenever i see it. when i look into her eyes i understand her confusion -- she has dementia. she's looking back at me, through me really, and i can see the pleading in her eyes, wanting to know and understand what has happened.

your husband has died, i tell her. he collapsed on the porch. there is nothing we can do to bring him back. can i call somebody to help you, i ask her. she still doesn't understand that her husband is dead, but she gives me the name and phone number of a friend of hers.

when i call the number it rings busy. i hang up and try again. still busy. dammit. i dial the operator. i've never done this before, and have not done it since. i don't even know if it is possible -- to call the operator and have her break into the call. i've only seen it done on tv and in movies. i identify myself to the operator and explain what has happened and what must be done. she takes our number and the number i'm trying to call. i hang up and wait. within minutes the phone rings and it's her friend. i explain that this woman's husband has died and i can't seem to make her understand what has happened. she tells me she'll be here in 15 minutes and hangs up.

i step back to the table and sit down, taking her hands again. when i tell her that her friend is on her way here, her mind seems to clear. again i explain that her husband has died and there is nothing we could do. now she understands. her eyes widen, she sighs, her breathing becomes slow and deep, and her grip on me tightens.

she wants to see him.

we walk to the porch, hand in hand. her grip is surprisingly strong and i can feel her bony knuckles pressing against mine. ted has covered her husband with a white blanket from the ambulance. i notice the water glass is still next to his head, right where she placed it.

she stares at the body. there is nothing i can do but wait. ted asks her if she wants us to take the blanket off him so she can look at him again. she says no, looks away, and drags me off the porch.

not looking at me, but still holding my hand, she begins telling me their story.

her husband bought this property from his father, 20 acres, as a wedding gift for her 60 years ago. my assumption was right, it had been homesteaded by the family. together they built the log cabin and the additions. she miscarried once and they never had children. they've outlived most of their friends and all of their family. for 60 years it's always been just the two of them. and more recently only the two of them.

she points our their garden, maybe a 100-150 feet from the back porch. near their small orchard -- i can see a couple of apple trees and a cherry tree. it appears too large for just the two of them. i see where he's been working the soil and already he has a few plants in, although i'm too far away to tell what they are.

she tells me about their garden, the different vegetables they've planted. what worked. what didn't work. how they store what they grow. how they used to trade with their friends and neighbors. how the garden became their baby, their child. how they nurtured it until it matured.

amazingly, her early memories of their lives together are sharp and clear and she would go into fine detail about small, though important, details. the color of their first pickup. what birds come at what time of year. the family of squirrels they would hand feed. what to plant to feed the deer so they would stay out of the main garden and orchard. the years the cougar and bear visited. occasionally she would repeat herself and ramble off on a different, unrelated, topic. but always she came back.

as i listened i began to wish i had known her and her husband sooner, and in better times. these were great stories and told of their life together. then she stopped and turned to me, her grip tightened again. i can't walk very far anymore, my legs and back hurt too much, she told me.

i waited for her to continue talking, but she just kept staring at me. i realized she was waiting for me to say something. as she waited, looking at me, i began to feel the sun burning the back of my neck and the loud buzz from the dragonflies. stumbling on my words, i finally said that a garden this large must have been a lot of work for her husband. she told me no, that they still worked it together. that each morning after breakfast he would pick her up and put her in their wheelbarrow and roll her to the garden so they could be together.