My aunt died last night and I wasn’t prepared for it. Are we ever? She was 54 years old. She was a mother, a grandmother, a sister, a friend, and my aunt. And now she’s a memory, forever gone from my life.
Friday evening Mike and I didn’t make Shakespeare in the Park or Ikea. It ended up being a quiet evening at home. We ordered takeout, he forced me (just kidding) to watch The Freshman (we watch any and everything Marlon Brando in my house) while we ate, and then we snuggled up in bed not watching anything in particular until DC Cupcakes came on. Around 9:00 I realized that I had yet to call my mom. The day before I promised her I’d call every day even if only to say hi. So without hesitation, I grabbed the cordless and called. The phone rang and rang and rang. I remember thinking it odd that my mom didn’t appear to be home at 9:00 on a Friday night. The answering machine came on. I shrugged it off, left a message, and carried on gazing unthinkingly at the tube. About an hour later, my cell phone rang. I glanced at it, seeing my mom’s home number. I picked it up. But it wasn’t my mom. It was my niece on the other end of the phone. After saying hello, she without delay told me that my Aunt Karen was in the hospital. I giggled. She didn’t. I knew something was wrong.
My aunt had been in and out of the hospital a lot in the past couple of years, and all too often the doctors didn’t necessarily find anything. A lot of us figured it was her way of getting attention. See, my aunt was the youngest of my grandparent’s seven children. She married a man (Uncle Alton) from the eastern shores of Maryland and moved there when I was very young. The other six children stayed relatively close geographically, and the Eastern Shore was about two hours away. With life, jobs, and children, it was difficult for any of us to venture down there often to visit. My aunt hated that. In the back of most of our minds, I think we figured she enjoyed the attention she’d get when admitted to the hospital because she knew it meant she’d get to see members of her family. Now looking back, shame on all of us. And I don’t know about everyone else, but I know I’m thinking I should have ventured down to see her much more often.
She had just gotten out of the hospital the day before and from what I was told the doctor’s didn’t really find anything. So when I got the call on Friday saying she was back in the hospital I chuckled, thinking she was at it again. But this time it was serious, and it didn’t take long for any of us to believe it. As my niece was telling me what was going on, my other line beeped and it was my sister. Something must be really wrong, is all I could think because my sister never calls me. I clicked over and she continued to fill me in on all that was happening. Apparently my aunt started feeling unwell Friday morning, and called my cousin who came over. My aunt fell, my cousin called the ambulance, and they took her to the hospital. They quickly realized that she was bleeding profusely, airlifted her to University Hospital in Baltimore, and determined that she had lost far too much blood. The likelihood of her survival was grim. I hung up with my sister feeling breathless. I called my mom, my dad, told Mike, and called my niece back, being told the same story over and over again. The doctors said she wouldn’t live through the night, and I wasn’t going to get to say goodbye.
Saturday Mike I drove two and a half hours to Baltimore. When we got to the hospital we were greeted outside by my dad, who took us upstairs to everybody else. The hospital waiting area was filled with aunts, uncles, friends of the family, and cousins I hadn’t seen in a long time and my very first thought was how I never really make much of an effort to see them. After hugging everyone and making my rounds to say hello, I decided I’d go in to see my aunt. I think I asked every person there if they had already seen her and if she looked the same. Everyone assured me she looked good and that I’d be fine. I wasn’t fine.
We got to the room and my uncle Melvin, the oldest of the seven children, was in there with her. He stopped us at the door, telling us we had to put on scrubs and gloves before entering. So we did. The nurse came in shortly after we walked inside the room to say only two visitors at a time. My uncle jumped up and said he would go so we could visit. He instructed me to walk over to the right side of the bed and to talk to her. As I looked up and over at the bed I felt like I was going to be sick. My aunt didn’t look anything like my aunt. Her face was swollen. Her eyes were shut. There were tubes in her nose and in her mouth. She wasn’t moving. She was doing nothing. She looked dead. I forced myself to say, “Aunt Karen, it’s me Tisha,” over and over again as though I was reciting a mantra, willing her to open her eyes. But she didn’t. The reverberation of the breathing machine and the simultaneous lifting and falling of her chest made me shiver. I looked over at Mike and whispered that I thought I was going to throw up. I couldn’t look at her anymore. I couldn’t sit in there and hear that machine anymore. I wanted to get up and run out of there. And so I did.
When I got to the waiting area I asked my mom why she didn’t tell me Aunt Karen looked like that. Why didn’t she prepare me for what I was about to see? I was so angry. I knew I wouldn’t be able to erase that image from my mind and that it would forever blur my memories of her. I didn’t want to remember her laying there lifeless, I wanted to remember her at the family cook outs, down at her house on the eastern shore, our trips to Grasonville’s dollar general, us eating at Horn in Horn in Annapolis, eating at Hardees, the laughs, the tears, my Aunt Karen. But now all I hear is that breathing machine ringing mercilessly in my ear and I start to cry.
Mike and I left after maybe six hours and trekked back home. I was terribly conflicted. I felt like I should stay and be there with my family, but I knew I had to go home and get my dogs, and it wouldn’t have been fair to make Mike drive all the way home alone. That night and the next day I called everyone over and over again to get an update. The doctors said they were surprised she was still living but certain she wasn’t going to recover. I listened from afar while everyone else was there. I felt horrible. Mike had to work Sunday night and my parents assured me there was no need to come down alone. I wasn’t so sure. Around 4:00 the doctors met with the family, stating there was nothing else they could do and that by pulling the plug they would let her die in dignity. How do you make that choice?
My mom says everyone looked at each other knowing pulling the plug was the right thing to do. I still can’t imagine having to make that call. Could my sister and I do that to one of our parents? The plug was pulled and my aunt drifted away. And when my sister called to tell me it was over, I started to cry, wishing I had trekked back down to Maryland to say goodbye.
How odd is it that just when I really realized how short life is, and how there is a need for me to change, yet another life is taken away? Yesterday toward the end of one of the conversations I had with my sister, I yelled out, “I love you, I really do, and I’m sorry.” She said that she loves me too but that I piss her off. I giggled to myself because she pisses me off too. But I told her that life is short, she is my sister and I want to love her and I want her to love me. I don’t want to live thinking we have next week, or a few days, or tomorrow to make up. We aren’t guaranteed tomorrow! She didn’t really say anything at this point but I knew she agreed.
If the call on Friday went differently and my niece just said that my aunt was in the hospital, would I have gotten in my car, taken time out of my day and gone to see her? Sadly, probably not. Would I today if given that chance? Absolutely!!! I loved—no I love—my Aunt Karen, and she died maybe not knowing that, perhaps because I was too busy to call to say hello. I never sent flowers. Didn’t go down to visit, meet her for dinner, or invite her over. I took for granted that she’d be here, never really giving it a second thought. But now she’s gone. And though I failed to say it Saturday over the sound of that cruelly beating breathing machine, I love her, and I will miss her. And I’m sorry I didn’t take the time to show her when she was here.
Love the ones you’re with!
No comments:
Post a Comment