Someone I Love is Dying

I’ve been thinking about whether or not to write something here for a few days now. It’s been keeping me awake at night, so I know it’s time.

Someone I love is dying.

My aunt Carol was diagnosed with esophageal cancer in March. She underwent surgery and treatment (mostly alone due to pandemic restrictions) and was cancer-free as of about six weeks ago. And then, it came back.

It’s happening quickly. We thought she may have a few months, but the cancer is aggressive and rare and it’s clear now that she has weeks at best. But I’m not writing this because I want to talk about cancer or even death, really. I’m writing this because I want to remember and share our final time together; because I value vulnerability and openness and connection and also because I promised her I would keep writing.

When we arrived at her home to see her, I braced myself a little, not knowing what to expect. I have seen death and I have been with people who are dying, but the “click. . . whirrrrrrr. Click. . . whirrrr” of the oxygen machine was what made it all real for me. We went into her room where she lay, so frail, in her bed. I sat next to her and held her hand. “Your hands are so soft!” I remarked. She smiled, weakly. “And look at my nails!” she said in her small whispery voice. A nail-biter for as long as I’ve known her, her nails are now longish and incredibly strong. Her hair, my mom let me know, was also growing in thick and more quickly than it had in her lifetime. The strange and cruel ironies of illness.

I know if I try to write down every moment of our visit that I won’t get it exactly right. But there are things that I certainly want to share. Some important insights about life that I will keep with me for the rest of mine, and that I know will be helpful for others.

Carol has had extraordinarily bad luck in life. She has been through far more than her fair share of illness and heartbreak and tragedy. But the things that have happened to her do not define her, and she’s never let them define her. I think what defines her is her dedication to helping other people. She was a hospice care worker for 15 years (she started in her 30s) and, most recently, a PSW in a long term care facility. She is, truly, the strongest and most resilient woman I’ve ever known and it makes the heartbreak of her life being cut so short extra difficult to accept. But the fact that she endured through so much, gives me hope that I (we) will get through this as well.

My visit with her was impactful. I could tell that there were things that she very intentionally wanted to speak to me about. She wanted to reminisce about teaching me how to fold socks when I was a toddler, and pulled out a pair of clean ones from under her blankets to illustrate. What a beautiful way to help me remember her and keep her close! Literally every time I fold socks, she will have my heart, clever woman. She also, through tears, told me about how sorry she was for how difficult the last few years have been for us. I know she meant Odin, and I was overcome by how, on her deathbed, she was thinking of me and my life. We talked about how important it was for her after her second husband died, tragically of a heart attack in their home, to find someone who had been through the same experience. And I thought of my dear loss mom friends and I knew exactly what she meant. And then she wanted to talk to me about organ donation. She explained, as best she could without being grim, that she had signed a DNR and that organ donation had always been important to her (“not that I’m much use now” she thought out loud). She asked me explicitly if I had a signed organ donor card in my wallet and that I should consider it. (Obviously, I will now.)

She also wanted me to know that, “relationships are not 50:50.” “I never understood why people say that. Relationships are 100:100. If you’re not giving 100% then you’re not giving your all.” As our visit went on and the insights flowed, at one point I said, “Aunt Carol, I feel like I need to get a pad and pen and starting writing these things down.” And she said, “well, my dear, I’m not starting again!” The cheek.

Saying goodbye is impossibly hard. I don’t know how I did it that day, except that Joanie was with us and the distraction of her sweet face has helped me through more than one difficult situation. I am grateful for that time we had together but am heartbroken at how unfair life can be. But I won’t let tragedy define me, just like Carol didn’t let it define her. Her example is a gift.