A couple of weeks ago I came across a picture in a newspaper that disturbed me greatly. It showed Los Angeles County officials attending a ceremony to pay last respects to unclaimed descendents at the county's crematory. There are apparently around 2,000 people's bodies that are unclaimed each year. They are the indigent, unidentified and the forgotten.

It is incredible to me that there were so many people who did not have others who cared enough to come and claim them. These were people who must have had parents who cared for them when they were children. Were they people who had families of their own? Had they brought children of their own into the world who forgot them?

I understand how many might sink into lives of taking drugs and spend their lives living out of cardboard boxes on sidewalks, but 2,000 bodies a year just out of East Los Angeles? It seemed incredible to me.

It was then I remembered something that happened to me when I was working in hospice. This was a medical hospice in Oxnard, and I had received a request to visit a client who lived in a motel in Port Hueneme. This client had terminal cancer and had a wife who lived with him. The motel was dreary, a motel that housed those close to being indigent. The dying man lay in bed, his wife sitting at his side.

My job was to see that this man had palliative care, and his wife any help she might need after his passing. They were an interesting couple. He had been a chef in a top Los Angeles hotel, well known for its great food. His wife had been a cook in the same kitchen. They were both in their mid-50s and had no children. They had moved to Ventura County some two years earlier and had enjoyed the wonderful weather and opportunities our county afforded them. One of the big problems in hospice care is that many people are admitted by their doctors way too late. They cannot enjoy being at home and receive the benefits hospice can give them in their last days.

As in most cases, this gentleman lived for a couple of weeks and died. I went immediately to see the surviving wife to offer any help I could. She had very little money and had no idea where her life was heading. It was soon apparent to me that there was no money for a cremation or burial and I would have to find some means to give this man a peaceful bed of rest.

After going through a labyrinth of county offices, I found out that most cemeteries give some free space to people who are indigent.

I spoke with the wife, and we decided on a burial time. The couple had no friends, so it was going to be just the two of us. I walked to the cemetery and passed the weather-worn headstones of the many people buried there. I had picked a few flowers from my garden to place on his plywood coffin. I waited and waited, but his wife never arrived. Eventually the man who was to bury this client of mine said he couldn't wait any longer. I said a few words about this man whom I had known such a short time and left.

I never heard from his wife again. I tried to telephone her and even visited the motel where I heard she had simply left. What was the story behind these two people? They were both educated people and had well-paying jobs in their lives together. They were certainly not taking drugs or alcohol, and yet there was no one to say goodbye to this man. Somewhere along the line something had happened to leave these two people penniless and without friends. We do not know what life will deal us.

— Star columnist Margaret Nesbitt welcomes comments and suggestions about subjects of interest to seniors. They can be sent via e-mail to undeg@verizon.net.