the death before the death

When I had originally edited the photos from my grandparents’ 69th anniversary party, I had left the above photo out. I know it seems ordinary to most, but it made me feel sad. My Aunt Kathie, in her wheelchair and oxygen… with my mother and my Aunt Mary helping her get out to the backyard… And my grandfather standing over her. My grandfather, who has battled lung cancer. My grandfather, who had a heart attack and went through triple-bypass surgery. My grandfather, who survived a hip replacement. Who turned 89 this year. Who has already lost one child to cancer… And is standing over one of his oldest daughters who is dying of the same thing.

It just broke my heart seeing this. I can’t imagine what is going through my grandparents’ minds. How they can feel at peace when they will soon be losing their second child to such an awful, tragic disease. You shouldn’t have to go through that as a parent once, nevermind twice.

Last week my mother called me to tell me that my aunt had been rushed to the hospital once again. It’s still so vivid in my mind, hearing my step-father talk to me on the phone and tell me what was going on. As I said my goodbyes, and asked him to please keep me posted with any updates, he started to cry. I immediately started texting my mother to find out what was going on. I could tell she was hysterical even before I heard her voice. I decided to call her and find out if I should go to the hospital — I didn’t know how much time was left.

As it went, my aunt survived her trip to the emergency room. But it was a few short days later that my mother called to tell me that the doctors had given her two to six weeks left, tops. They would release her as soon as home hospice had been set up. My mothers words were: “You’ll probably want to see her sooner rather than later, while she is still of sound mind.”

That night I visited my aunt at her home with my mother. She hadn’t arrived home from the hospital yet, but my mother and I had let ourselves into her house and waited for her. While we waited, my mother got a phone call from my aunt, saying that her daughter was taking her out for dinner and she wanted mom and I to go with her. My mother talked her into coming to the house first, because I wouldn’t be able to make it to dinner with them, but that I wanted to see her. So, my mother hung up the phone… only to have it ring a moment later. She answered it, knowing it was my aunt. She started to laugh and said “Ok…” and hung up. When I asked her what she said, my mother imitated my aunt’s breathy, exasperated voice: “Make sure… you put some glue… on Jessie… so she doesn’t… go anywhere.” My aunt had wanted to make sure I waited for her to come home.

It took everything I had not to cry at the sight of her. She looked so frail, and couldn’t even get out of the car by herself. She could barely speak, she was so out of breath from the cancer. We visited for a while, and halfway through the visit, she motioned my mother to go up to her bedroom. My mother returned back with a small white box. My aunt took it in her shaking hands, and opened it. Inside was a gold ring with two opals set in it. Her birthstone. My birthstone.

“Jessica,” she said. “When I graduated high school back in 1963, my mother… your grandmother… gave me this ring. Because your birthstone is the same as mine, I would like to give this to you. Would you like to have it?” I couldn’t even speak, I was already crying. I looked up at my mother, who had tears in her eyes and smiled. I whispered, “I would love it, Aunt Kathie.”

After a little longer, it was time for us to go. My mother gave her kisses and hugs and told her she would see her the next day. She has been visiting her sister every day after work for the past few months since she was diagnosed. I leaned over and hugged my aunt tight, telling her I would see her soon and thanking her again for the ring. My mother and I both walked out and toward our cars. I started to say goodbye to my mother so I could head home, but while she held me, she said, “Why didn’t you tell her how much you were going to miss her, and how much you loved her?”

“Because I didn’t want to make it seem like it was the last time I was ever going to see her.”

We were both silent for a moment, still hugging, when my mother whispered, “But it is.” I started to cry. Uncontrollable, hiccup-frenzied sobs. My mother told me to go back in while Aunt Kathie was alone and tell her how I felt.

So I walked back into the house, where my aunt was still sunk in the chair in her living room staring at nothing in particular. I fell to my knees in front of her, still crying when she turned to me and just said “I’m going to miss you so much.” I held her so tight, and she hugged me harder than she’s hugged me in months. She whispered “I’m going to miss you, too, sweetie.” I told her how much I loved her and how unfair it all is. She started to nod and said, “I know it is… But I’ll be watching over you always.”

We sat there hugging for a few moments in silence. I kissed her cheek and she kissed mine as I said goodbye again, both of us knowing that it would probably be the last time we ever saw each other. I stood up and told her I loved her, and as I walked through the front door I heard her say, “I love you too, Jessie.”

It dawned on me on the way home that night that those were probably the last words I’ll ever hear her speak to me.

She’s not gone yet. She’s still home, but the morphine drip is getting stronger with each day. Her birthday is next week, and she’ll be turning 65. I’m not even sure if she’ll be aware of what day it is by that point. Part of me doesn’t want her to know. Part of me doesn’t want her to be aware that every day brings her that much closer to death. I want her to go to sleep one night and just not wake up. Simple, sweet, peaceful. I don’t want her to suffer anymore.

I really just want my Aunt Kathie back.