Sarzonia
16-05-2005, 16:12
Six years ago today, my aunt died from complications of diabetes at the tender age of 50. She was much more than my dad's older sister. When I was born two and a half months premature, she took a month off work to help my mother (who was only 21 and didn't have a clue about taking care of a baby) take care of me. When I was in my formative years, she was sometimes like a third parent, so it felt fitting when my father told me that he picked her to be my godmother.
As I grew older and (hopefully) more mature, our relationship evolved from being a near parental one to being more like siblings. As I got older, she started to think of herself as a sister rather than an aunt. Either way you looked at it, we had a bond that I had with no other family member.
Unfortunately, about six months before she died, she had what's called a TIA, which was explained to me as sort of a mild stroke. She had to go to the hospital several times, she couldn't work, and my grandmother ended up taking care of her for most of the time.
I can still remember May 16, 1999 like it was yesterday: Because I was insanely behind on chores, my folks left me behind while they drove to visit my aunt in the hospital. I spent the time mowing the lawn thinking about a lot of things, such as the busy week in front of me that was so packed with obligations that I was still trying to piece together the logistics in my mind. I hadn't seen or talked to my aunt, so I had no way of knowing that she was going to look like death warmed over when my folks went to see her.
Later that night, I was in the basement using the computer and playing a VCR tape of a Fleetwood Mac concert when I heard the phone ring. I went up slowly to hear what was going on and I heard that my aunt was on the way to the hospital. It was serious, but I didn't have a way of knowing how serious it was, but somehow, I had a sense that this was very serious. At 10:04 p.m., the phone rang again. Somehow, I KNEW exactly what the call was going to be. I bolted up the stairs from the basement, briskly walked through the kitchen to the foyer and had my right foot balanced on the bottom step of the stairs leading up to the second floor when I heard my dad's partner say the words I feared and expected: "She died?!" I remember just standing there in shock, mixed with sadness, grief, and every emotion you can possibly imagine. My dad's partner and I discussed whether or not to wake my father up to tell him that my aunt passed, and I said, "you've got to tell him. That's his sister." He went in and told him. I can still remember hearing my dad's voice, heavy with grief, asking, "when?"
In the days following her death, I also remember my dad's partner, who earlier in the day had chided me for being behind on my chores, saying I should have gone to see my aunt. I realise it was hard, but hindsight's 20/20, as they say. All the obligations I had for that week pretty much went out the window except for one final exam, which I took that Friday. I can remember giving the eulogy at my aunt's funeral, and I can remember an associate who looked so downcast when I told him that my aunt died that I wanted to try to cheer him up. All in all, May 16 comes every year and I think back to that day. It's one I can never forget for the rest of my life.
As I grew older and (hopefully) more mature, our relationship evolved from being a near parental one to being more like siblings. As I got older, she started to think of herself as a sister rather than an aunt. Either way you looked at it, we had a bond that I had with no other family member.
Unfortunately, about six months before she died, she had what's called a TIA, which was explained to me as sort of a mild stroke. She had to go to the hospital several times, she couldn't work, and my grandmother ended up taking care of her for most of the time.
I can still remember May 16, 1999 like it was yesterday: Because I was insanely behind on chores, my folks left me behind while they drove to visit my aunt in the hospital. I spent the time mowing the lawn thinking about a lot of things, such as the busy week in front of me that was so packed with obligations that I was still trying to piece together the logistics in my mind. I hadn't seen or talked to my aunt, so I had no way of knowing that she was going to look like death warmed over when my folks went to see her.
Later that night, I was in the basement using the computer and playing a VCR tape of a Fleetwood Mac concert when I heard the phone ring. I went up slowly to hear what was going on and I heard that my aunt was on the way to the hospital. It was serious, but I didn't have a way of knowing how serious it was, but somehow, I had a sense that this was very serious. At 10:04 p.m., the phone rang again. Somehow, I KNEW exactly what the call was going to be. I bolted up the stairs from the basement, briskly walked through the kitchen to the foyer and had my right foot balanced on the bottom step of the stairs leading up to the second floor when I heard my dad's partner say the words I feared and expected: "She died?!" I remember just standing there in shock, mixed with sadness, grief, and every emotion you can possibly imagine. My dad's partner and I discussed whether or not to wake my father up to tell him that my aunt passed, and I said, "you've got to tell him. That's his sister." He went in and told him. I can still remember hearing my dad's voice, heavy with grief, asking, "when?"
In the days following her death, I also remember my dad's partner, who earlier in the day had chided me for being behind on my chores, saying I should have gone to see my aunt. I realise it was hard, but hindsight's 20/20, as they say. All the obligations I had for that week pretty much went out the window except for one final exam, which I took that Friday. I can remember giving the eulogy at my aunt's funeral, and I can remember an associate who looked so downcast when I told him that my aunt died that I wanted to try to cheer him up. All in all, May 16 comes every year and I think back to that day. It's one I can never forget for the rest of my life.