I received message Monday morning that my grandmother's oldest sister just passed away. She was a gentle woman, a woman filled with laughter, and compassion. She very much reminds me of my grandmother: she was a warm soul, gentle but boy was she a spit fire if need be.When I received the news it hit me slow. It was like a slow moving fog that just creeps into your life and suddenly your surrounded by it, just you and the fog.
Death is all to common an event in my family: Witnessing my Aunt take her last breath at 15 years old, pacing in a room waiting for the news of my first love's beloved grandfather to a stroke, witnessing my uncle literally wither away, being 2500 miles away when I heard that another uncle had suddenly and unexpectedly passed, and being too close to relatives that are on the edge of Po.
With the passing of my grand aunt, it became a powerful visual reminder of the very real presence Death has in my life. It seems as though Death has always been lurking around every corner or waiting outside our family's doorposts over the last 15 years. It used to leave me asking the question, "Why does it have to be us?" and now I have come to the point of surrender; of acceptance.
I spoke with a close friend when I was knee deep in archaic sea smoke and relayed to her how I felt. She couldn't quite understand because the closest person to have had died for her was a neighbor. Again, my mind wandered with questions about what made this family line so much different than others I knew, that lives were taken in much more rapid succession. I began to relive the moments and memories in which I shared with my late relatives:
First with my aunt, who was a second mother to me, took her last gasping breath in my childhood home. She had fought a very long hard battle with a rare cancer that played peek-a-boo from within her delicate body. It was relentless, despite my aunt's fervor in fighting it. When we knew she wasn't going to get better, my mother opted to become her hospice nurse, a job I know must have been excruciatingly painful. I vividly recall the last two days of my aunt's life: running errands, cleaning bed linens, frequently hugging and kissing her even though she slept a lot, and bursting into tears when she no longer recognized me. The 5:30am text message from my mom reading, "Come downstairs, it won't be much longer now." I jumped out of bed, creeped down the stairs as if somehow that would prevent Death from coming to collect her, and opened up my mother's bedroom door: the lights were dimly lit and the TV was on. My mother was holding her sister's left hand and stroking her head, saying, "Go to Jesus now. Go to Jesus." And as I held my mother's hand, I watched my beautiful aunt who took her last living breaths on this earthen plane. Shallow inhale. Exhale. Pause. Pause. Pause. Pause. Pause. Shallow inhale. Hold. Light exhale. Gone. Forever burned in my memory. I miss her long golden hair, the sound of her laugh, how she read her books for hours on end, and how she loved me. I had just turned 16 when she died.
Next, I remembered the life of a hilarious old man, who constantly blabbered on about the vultures above his house who were just waiting for him to die so they could pick his bones clean. He loved his fish in' pontoon and his talking' fish at his door post. Originally form Kentucky, this true blue southern gentleman was a one of a kind. I never will forget his kindness and openness to me. Nor how he always seemed to watch to have a boxing match against me. My first love's grandfather was his best friend; they were two peas in the same pod. When we got word that he had suffered a stroke, we drove from Southern California out to Henderson, Nevada to see him in the hospital. We stayed a few days until he was released and saw him to his home. That next weekend we came back to visit. He looked great, said he felt fine and was going fishing very soon. Some time had passed and we had heard that he was back in the hospital having suffered another stroke. The entire family had gathered together for him, more than 25 of us in the waiting room. We each saw him individually. Hugged him and kissed him. He managed a smile. A few days later we got the call that he had passed away. My first love was torn to bits, angry, and devastated. He had lost his mother tragically, his father was a deadbeat alcoholic who he had never known, and now his best friend had just died. The greatest heartache for me was at the funeral burial when, after the moving service, my First love's brother revealed the headstone of their mother's grave; something he had never seen. As he collapsed into my frail arms, my heart was only further broken. We lie on the ground in tears, crying for what seemed like hours, just utterly exasperated from all the emotional wreckage that had been unearthed in a single moment.
It was three years later when I knew Death had become a permanent relative. It's gaze was fixed upon the only true father figure I'd ever known as a child, my uncle Michael. I was much more removed emotionally from my uncle's passing since I was still grieving over my aunt's. Yet, his passing hit me the hardest. My grades fell terribly in school, I could not function at work, and my relationships fell apart. His cancers seemed like a much more silent killer. Or maybe he was just the silent type who quietly fought his pain behind closed doors. He never let me know he was in pain. I remember his withering away; a man of pure muscle, with lots of hair, very defined facial features, and jet black eyes now sat wobbly, shirts 4 sizes too big, and every single bone of his body visual. Yet it was his eyes that spoke with such sadness. I could see all his hopes and dreams leaving him, his loving light, his enigmatic nature. He would stare empty as though he had already greeted Death. On a particularly cold winter night, our family had made its way over to my uncle's home for our traditional weekly dinners. I had recently purchased a new car and I had told him about the car prior to purchase. He was excited to see it that evening and I was excited to share it with him. It was my first car that I actually would own. I came inside hugged and kissed him and sat down next to him. He didn't look at me, just watched the commercial on the TV. He touched my leg and turned to me and, "my niece just bought one those exact cars. I'm so proud of her." It was with those stinging words that I knew history was about to repeat itself. I just said, "Uncle Mike, that was me. I bought that car." He couldn't remember who I was. I left the house in tears.
My uncle passed in the arms of my aunt Margaret in their home in December. I was the only niece who was able to attend his viewing before the funeral. As I waited for my aunt and cousins to finish their own individual time with him, I walked into the dark room and saw his cold, pale body lying next the red walls dimly lit. It was my first experience seeing a corpse. At 21, I had thought that I would be able to handle it. I had read every book on grief and loss in my psychology courses in college and felt prepared. I walked towards him and saw his lifeless body and it became a reality that I would never feel his warmth again. That his hugs or kisses were forever gone. That his smell of cigarettes and booming voice would be silenced. I would soon forget the sound of his voice and way that he walked. I lost control and lay against his ice cold body. I remember apologizing to him and spilling my heart's pain and love for him. It was as though he was still there and I kept wishing, imagining he would just sit up and wrap his arms around me just once more. I brushed his hair back and touch his mustache. I held his hand and kissed his cheek. I walked towards the doors and glanced back, fully aware that would be the last time I would see his physical body.
Our family, between 2005 and 2012 had a number of scares that left us cleaving to the Breath of Life as we hung over Death's abysmal precipice: Breast tumors, colon cancer, pneumonias, broken bones in the elderly and heart attacks. We were thankful that each person came back from the edge and was given more time. That is, until we all were rocked to our core in such a sudden and unexpected way. It left me in such a state of shock that sometimes I still find this next loss hard to believe.
In April of 2012, my husband and I had decided to make a nice weekend at the New Jersey shore. After a late Friday evening in Atlantic City, we woke up late. I had 5 missed calls from my mom. I immediately called her back and when I reached her, she was panicked and incomprehensible. It was loud and she was muttering so quickly that I couldn't catch anything she was saying. She was crying and sobbing so loudly that nothing made sense. After she finally calmed down enough to tell me she was at the airport, I asked what had happened. She said, "AJ died!" and I was in shock. I didn't believe her. I told her that it wasn't funny to say that and she said she was being serious, that he was found early this morning. She explained that she was coming home for the funeral that was happening this coming week. I hung up the phone and was in shock. I looked over at my husband and just said, "My uncle AJ passed away last night."
I can't explain what he meant to me. He was such a special guy. He did anything and everything for anyone. It didn't matter who you were. He was a steward of the Catholic Church and was very proud to be Catholic. He was a great man. With this uncle, there wasn't anything that he wouldn't have done for me. I was like his child. I remember walking on his back and calling him a bear when I was a child. He rescued me from a train bathroom. He attended nearly every volleyball game, track event or soccer match I ever had. He was the first person, outside my mother, I talked to when I was discussing my conversion to Judaism. I remember the way he selflessly offered himself every minute for my grandmother. He gave his own freedom, he denied himself a life of his own because he so loved her.
Going to the viewing was the toughest thing I had ever done. I was 2500 miles away when I got the news but my immediate family thought it would be good for my grieving process. My mother and sister were going to the funeral home to identify his body for legal purposes as well as finalize his arrangements. I was suckered into go. I did not want to go because I remember what my aunt looked like after her death and did not want to relive the trauma associated with my uncle who died in 2005. I went anyways to support them and before I knew it, I was walking towards the viewing room. My mom and sister nobly walk up to the body first as I stand behind the door, my mom says, "awww. he looks good. Danielle come in" and I stepped into the room but 5 feet, and I was on the floor gasping for air. I was holding myself and sobbing intensely knowing that he was really gone. That my big bear, my Garfield loving uncle was really gone. I found myself wondering if I was ok with the shitty, half-assed text message I sent to him 2 weeks prior wishing him a Happy Birthday and saying how much I loved him. Why didn't I call? I found myself wondering why I declined so many dinner dates with him. I felt awful. For a year after his passing I kept his text messages, played his voicemails, and read his cards. I still peruse his Facebook.
Death in and of itself is so powerful. It has the power to make a grown woman. at the slightest memory of her loved one , to break out into tears. What it does most for me is brings to light that as more and more of my loved ones die, it brings me one generation closer to embracing the chilly hand of Death. I begin to wonder if I am living my life I want, with the people I want, or doing the things I want.
Death and dying has made realize how much I took for granted the time I thought I had with my loved ones. Never in my life would i have expected losing 3 of the greatest aunts and uncles I had in their 40s. I expected to bury them when they were in their 80s or 90s. Its the same with grandparents. I look at my beautiful grandparents who are in their late 80s, who are closer to greeting Death than I maybe comfortable with accepting. The time that is lost with them as we ourselves age. I grew up at their house, eating their food, swimming in their pool, and sleeping on their floors. I grew up watching my grandmother put her makeup on in a certain way and watching my New England grandfather organize and put his shoes on with a shoehorn. I like his Boston accent that he swears doesn't exist. It makes me realize that as I've grown up, so too have they. I fear for the day when the link between myself and the days of old are gone. There will be no one who can tell her story anymore, who will know her mother's story. Its times like this, as an adult, that I wish i would have listened more. Written down their stories earlier on. Just been present more.
There is one truth that I hold, if I could spend just one more day with those I have lost, I would do it in a heartbeat. What I wouldn't give to speed off to Ireland with my Uncle AJ who always dreamed of seeing the "Motherland" and kissing the Blarney Stone; to take my Aunt Maureen to New Orleans during Mardi Gras just see the festivities and get wild; and to watch my Uncle Mike single ski down Lake Mead for miles just because it was so easy for him.
Don't do it later. Make the time now. Nothing is more important than your family and loved ones.
