No, no. It can’t be. Zsa Zsa Gabor dead? What a shock!
Well, that, too.
The main shock is her final photos, looking like this, in a hospital bed with side rails. The big event of her day was getting on the bedpan. The public Zsa Zsa we knew had died years ago. I have seen this in others, too—none of who they once were remains, not their personalities, not even their memories. The person I once knew so well has already gone.
I know, I know, what do I expect? How will I look, if I live to 99? Much worse, I’m sure.
(I have since been reading of her legendary sex life, of which I was unaware. She does look tired. I thought she just liked to get married.)
One columnist said she was one of those celebrities famous for being famous.
When I was about ten, my great-grandmother turned 99 (but died soon after). I remember asking my mother if she wouldn’t wish to live to 100. My mother’s answer totally surprised me.
“Oh, no!” she replied. “I would never want to be that old.”
Boy, was she ever right.
I was surprised again when my buddy, an old classmate of ours, recently told me he fully expected to live to at least 100, was still looking forward to lots more fun in life, and thought I was morbid for even considering decline and death. I argued he was picturing himself as Bette Davis in Dark Victory, living a full life until the last hour when her brain tumor blinds her, signaling the end is near. She then climbs comfortably into bed, says her goodbyes with a clear mind, turns her made up face and fresh hairdo to the wall, and passes on with a sigh. But that’s not real life. He cannot expect to remain as vital and active as he is now all the way to 100. From here on out, every day will be his best day.
He still thought I was being morbid. I hope he saw the photos of Zsa Zsa near her end, although maybe denial is the way to go. Maybe I am the one who should change, I kid you not.