In Sickness and In Health

A death in the family is a cruel reminder that you live far from home. It makes you realize how far away you are when you worry that your later time zone makes it too late to call and let them know you’re coming. Indeed, you are very far away when you need a flight, a hotel and a rented car to get there. A visitor in the place you used to call home. Needing a map to find the funeral home makes that feeling a bright, brittle reality.

“Your aunt died”, is what my father said when he called. I knew when I saw his number on the call display that something must be wrong because he and his wife had visited me just two weeks ago when I was in Toronto to surprise my mother at her retirement party. “Your aunt died” was all he could say. He couldn’t say much more because she was less MY aunt than she was HIS sister, his beloved older sister, his only sister, his surrogate mother when he was younger. He could barely speak.

I lost my sister too. It was many years ago, but never stops feeling recent – like I forgot to move through all the stages of grief and got stuck on “denial”. I know exactly how your memory takes turns soothing you and torturing you with scene after vivid childhood scene. In a rush, you relive the good times, the bad times, the funny times, the sad times ... the short years that you had together. “Your sister” is how my father always refers to her, as if he too is still in denial and cannot utter “my daughter” for fear of making it real.

“Your aunt died” was all he could say. Well, okay, I’ll take her. I’ll happily own her and call her MINE. I am happy to have had any possession of her at all for she was a lot of fun and my memories of her are wonderful. No matter how many people were in her home or her cottage, in addition to her own five children, their friends, and random neighbourhood kids, she would always be smiling or laughing. A collage of pictures at the funeral show the Bev I knew as a child – chin held high, leaning slightly forward with a big grin on her face and her hands on her hips.

Occasionally, she would pretend to be exasperated by some joke or comment that her husband had made, shaking her head and admonishing him, but, in reality, she adored him. He adored her too and they were married 61 years. The photos of their courtship and married life confirm that a stunning teenager with high cheekbones and close-set pale blue eyes fell in love with a dashing, dark-haired man, who never seemed to stop smiling. They aged gracefully, producing multiple kids, grandkids and great-grandkids. In some photos, they are smiling at each other or out at the camera but they are nearly always touching; always together.

Several years ago, though, Alzheimer’s robbed my aunt of the ability to connect the face of her husband with his name or his relationship to her. These were sad days; like trying to save a drowning person whose hands slip slowly out of your grasp. From the time my aunt needed full-time care until her passing, my uncle spent every single day at the home helping her and the other clients. His biggest worry, when he needed minor surgery a couple of years ago, was that he would not be able to visit her for several days.

“Your aunt died” is what my father said when he called. Yes, indeed, she did and I’m as sorry for it as I am happy that I knew her at all. Goodbye, Aunt Bev. We loved you dearly.