Introduction

As I opened the door to Aunt Jeanne's tiny assisted living facility room (it's much too small and forlorn to be called an apartment), I could hear her mumbling to herself......."Lefty, Lefty, why? Why?" My heart broke for her because I thought that all of a sudden she was agonizing over her first husband, Lefty, who had been killed in a battle during World War II so many years ago. I approached her, ready to offer words of solace when she turned towards me, smiled broadly and said,"Donna, who's Lefty? I keep thinking about someone named Lefty, who is he? Why do I keep thinking about a fella named Lefty?"

I was the one who burst into tears. There had been uncountable events and comments over the past several years that had saddened me, but this one was heart wrenching. Prior to the onset of dementia, Aunt Jeanne was renowned among family and friends for her fierce independence and stoic response to life's heartache and trauma. Dynamic and outspoken, she had learned to speak fluent Spanish and Italian, loved to travel, play cards, entertain and socialize with family and friends. She had been active in her Italian Club, participating in numerous functions over the years. Always proud of herself for her ability to help others, she now lacked the capability to perform even the most mundane daily living skills.

Well aware that she had lost her short term memory and basic conversational skills, I was stunned that she was unable to remember her high school sweetheart she had married before he went overseas during"The War." As she continued smiling at me, I handed her the framed studio photograph that has always been propped up on her dresser, depicting Private John J. Zagarella, nicknamed"Lefty," with his beautiful new wife and said,"That's Lefty, Aunt Jeanne, this is your wedding picture." Smiling and chuckling a little, she pointed at the handsome, painfully young man in his army uniform, standing proudly next to his beautiful beaming bride, and said,"That fella? That fella there is Lefty?" She then became aware of my tears and said,"Hey! What's wrong, why are you crying? Stop it! Well, he sure is good looking, isn't he?"

Sniffling and taking a deep breath I agreed with her and looked again at the photograph taken on July 8, 1943. Jeanne was twenty and Lefty was twenty-two. He would never get much older; after their wedding, he had about another 17 months to live. Aunt Jeanne did get older. She is 90 now, coping with occasional debilitating arthritis, and though she vehemently denies it, increasing dementia.

Although she married again, seven years after the war to our beloved Uncle Vinnie, she never had children. Her nieces and nephews became surrogate sons and daughters as she devoted much of her life to helping us, her sisters' children. We knew all about Lefty, or thought we did, but really all we knew was that he had been killed in World War II.

I opened her closet door and unlocked her filing cabinets, protected with double locks as she just knew"someone will break in here and steal all my stuff." Among the costume jewelry, matchbook cover collection, balls of twine ("that was my mother's string!" she would proudly proclaim,"you never know when you might need some string!") and jars filled with buttons, pens, key chains, keys, thousands of paper clips