My aunt died yesterday morning. She’d gone into the hospital after a vicious bout of congestive heart failure. They stabilized her but couldn’t complete the surgical solution to all her problems because they found a Mass. Capital M. Like Capital C. Stage 4 Cancer. I don’t remember the details. By now they’re moot. They stabilized her. We prepared for a long hard bout with chemotherapy and multiple surgeries. Next month. Maybe the month after. She went home, the family that had gathered in the hospital in the midst of the panic dispersed, knowing we had rough times coming up.
We sat back and breathed. She died working in her flower garden at 5 in the morning yesterday. I don’t know details. But I think all in all, assuming it was quick, it was probably the way she’d want to go.
My Aunt Penny was originally my preschool teacher Penny. (or kindergarten? She was one for me and the other for my brother) We met her at a church-run preschool (or kindergarten) within walking distance of our house growing up. She was joyous and smiling. I once accidentally called her “grandma” and have fond if foggy memories of coloured bits of paper and first discovering eye floaters staring at the skylights while unable to sleep during nap. My brother invited her to his birthday party. Because when you’re five you do that. (or 4). At the birthday party my Uncle George saw her and demanded we give him her phone number. They’ve been together ever since.
If it wasn’t for MCI and Hershey it would’ve been something of a faerie tale romance – but that’s maybe a longer story than I want to tell.
On the other side, Uncle George introduced me to all things fantasy beginning with the animated versions of the Hobbit and the Return of the King. He Lived in the basement of my grandparents’ house when I was a kid and he had a cool board game called “Dark Tower” (?) that had a dark tower in the centre of the board that lit up and laughed and played thunder and probably rolled the dice for you. I thought it was the coolest thing ever.
I point to MCI and Hershey as being the things that knocked fantasy out of his Life and financial difficulty on my end brought us together in the late 90s and then drove us apart. Never mix business and family. Again – probably a longer story than I want to tell.
The end product is that though my Aunt Penny and I have chatted here and there, emailed here and there, me and my uncle haven’t spoken in close to 20 years – but he hasn’t been without Penny in close to 40, and they’ve never been apart since they met. Yeah – MCI and Hershey be DAMNED – I don’t know how you lose your faith in faerie tales and fantasy if you can have a Love that lasts that long.
Well, we’re driving to Virginia. Where the funeral will be. But at the moment we’re not driving down for the funeral. Kristen’s driving from a wedding. We’re meeting shy of Richmond for a gig. Then she’ll drive to another wedding tomorrow, we’ll drive home to Baltimore to play a festival. Then I’ll drive back to Virginia. This time for the funeral. My brother will fly in from Houston. My cousin won’t drive in from Georgia. My other uncle will fly in from Rome. He’s a Catholic deacon and will do the service. I’m glad I can make it. It was pretty up in the air till I figured out that my mother was off on all of the details by 24 hours. Thank goodness funeral homes have highly-detailed websites for those of us that don’t have highly-detailed moms.
Conversations. Guilt-trips. “I don’t see the problem – your UNCLE is flying in from ROME – just put in on your credit card! – YOU don’t know what I can afford – WHAT are you doing there? You’re just standing on some stage playing your songs” Not good conversations. Better conversations with my brother. He’s got two kids. His wife will be flying to Newfoundland for business. One kid is special needs. We’re making it work. We’ll make it work.
One way or the other I know that it’s all over by Wednesday at the latest and even if it’s horrible and full of drama, it’ll be done. And maybe it will be GOOD. Maybe it’ll be healing and positive. One way or the other I thought we had more time. I regret not having gone to visit Aunt Penny a week ago. But I thought we had more time. Of course we always think we’ve got more time. Having Lived through cancer’s slow, wasting death of my father though – I think that I prefer thinking we had more time to slowly, guiltily wishing it was over. Not sure where the moral balance is on the line between wishing you could go back in time and share more time with someone who’s passed versus wishing you could forget that you secretly wished someone would hurry up and die.
That’s perhaps horrible to say. But only if you’ve never done the Big C before. Then I think you know what I mean.
So – THAT’S what kept me up last night. Staring at the ceiling. Floaters on the eyes. I eventually DID get to sleep, was woken by nightmares. I dreamt that I was sitting at a desk quitting a job. A union rep is handing me a piece of paper that has on it, handwritten “this is a declaration of war. TOTAL war. WAR!!!” There are names and signatures on the piece of paper. Some are legible. Some not. Some are crossed off. Some look like they’re signed in blood. It’s the first time I can remember reading in a dream. I’ve read that you can’t. Tonight I can. Half-heartedly and almost playfully Mosno is grabbing at my hands, looking to push needles under the nails. “Sorry buddy!” I swat him away, explain I’m not declaring war, I’m just quitting my job. I’m going to go play music. I won’t be in competition. There’s no ill-will. I’ve just got to follow a dream. It feels awful. He never quite gets the needles in but I can feel the ALMOST pokes uncomfortably close to pain as I wake up, heart racing. I’ve gotten into the habit of measuring my heart rate. I know it’s faster than it ought to be and my resting heart rate is out of the norm and probably unhealthy. Post working out I’m usually around 165 or so. This morning I’m at 180. My dreams might well kill me I guess.
Heather’s driving. Justin McMahon is watching the world go by. I’m sitting in the back telling stories. I check my heart rate now, not resting per se, but sitting and typing.
Lowest BPM yet-measured. I guess writing really DOES calm me. I like numerical proofs.
In other news – yes “Dark Tower” by Milton Bradley: It wasn’t just a game. It was an experience born of electronic wizardry. Just fyi. Shame the family went through a “role playing games are the stuff of the devil” and “fantasy is for children” phase. The game goes for close to two thousand bucks on eBay.
