Jane

Before I closed the door, I took one more look. I felt horrible that I had to leave; leave her all alone. She covered her face with a blanket, it was the way she liked to sleep, however, it looked strange due to the fact that she was sitting straight up in her chair in the den, the new one that lifted her to her feet with the push of a button. She resembled a mummy or perhaps a mannequin who had been covered for storage. I told her that I would see her in a few weeks, which was more of a wishful thought than it was a promise. She did not reply. The truth was, I wasn't sure when I would see her again, maybe she knew that. In the blink of the moment that I looked back before closing the door, I hoped that I would see her again before it all ended.

November 20, 1951 my aunt was born and any hopes that she would be alive to see very much of 2010 was slim to nothing. She had called me crying nearly 3 years earlier to tell me she had been diagnosed with breast cancer, specifically HER2-positive breast cancer. HER2-positive is a breast cancer that tests positive for a protein called human epidermal growth factor receptor 2 (HER2), which promotes the growth of cancer cells. In about 1 of every 5 breast cancers, the cancer cells make an excess of HER2 due to a gene mutation. This gene mutation, and the elevated levels of HER2 that it causes, can occur in many types of cancer. It is also very aggressive and a real son of a bitch to kill.

By 2008, we had fought the good fight, been cancer free for a year and had strong hopes that things were going well. And they were; until the dizziness started.

She originally had thought that it was side effects from the bevy of medicines she was taking. She had asked the doctor about it and the doctor, thorough practitioner of medicine that he was, suggested they do scans of the brain for any abnormalities. Sure enough, tricky little tumors had set up camp on the Pons, a section of the brain stem.

It was late summer 2009 when I stole that glance back at her before shutting the door. I had vowed to myself on the 12 hour drive home that I would make the trip from Maryland to Kentucky every few weeks in order to fit in as much time with her as I could. It sounded good, but it was unrealistic.

I was, however, dead set on spending Thanksgiving with her, but as some of you may recall, I spent that Thanksgiving on the couch with piggy death cough. I was to sick to travel and my wife kept reminding me that I was contagious and I could do more harm to her than good by going. In short, I could pass the germs to her and with the fragile state of her immune system, it could kill her. She was right, I was just being irrational.

I did not make it back to Kentucky until March 2010.

I had routinely called, of course, to check her status and to see if she needed anything. Every time I called I got the sense from those that I spoke with that I was only being told half the story and that what I would consider to be major milestones in the decline of health, such as losing sight and the ability to walk, were little more than set backs that were par for the course. I needed to see her again, to make sure he knew I was there and that even though I was unable to keep my word at my regular visits, I had not abandoned her fight.

When I arrived she had some our family and the nurses from Hospice around her bed. She was awake but heavily medicated. I walked into the room and stood towards the back absorbing the sight of my aunts devastated body. They announced to her that I was in the room and with her one good eye I could see that she opened it a little wider and began scanning the faces around her looking for me. I stepped from the back and took hold of her hand. She looked at me and whispered I love you, over and over and over again. It was the last thing she ever said to me.

I stayed with her for two weeks before she passed. After the first day, when she whispered that she loved me, she had stopped talking all together, her breathing had become intensely labored and you could see her body, like the blades of a fan, slowly winding down to a stop. Her vitals such as blood pressure, heart rate, etc., were erratic going from horribly low one day to rapid the next or normal the next.

The day she died, she spent most of the day sleeping. In fact, I do not recall her waking up at all that day. I would go in and sit with her off and on through out the day and night. Speaking with the nurses or simply talking to her about old times. That day, however, I spent a majority of the time in the den just outside of her bedroom sitting in that chair, the one the raises you to your feet with the push of a button, reading. That evening, the nurse came to me and said that I should come in the room because she thought it was close to "time". I went upstairs, told my mom she should come down and we both stood by her bed side, holding her hand, stroking her head, watching her go. Five minutes later, I lost my only aunt.

We had the funeral services two days later. Nearly 500 people showed up to show their respect for my aunt who had been a life long citizen in that town and had spent over 30 years as a teacher and ultimately the elementary school Principal. She retired officially from her job a few months before she passed away. She had planned to retire that summer anyway and had booked a trip to Paris, France, but she never made it. She had to retire a few months earlier than expected, but up until she lost most of her abilities, she spent most of the day working on the administrative duties for the school on a laptop from home. If she was anything, she was dedicated.

I suppose what I want to say here is that I learned quite a bit from the death of my aunt. It affected me quite profoundly, spiritually even. The moment that my aunt passed away I began to look around the room, expecting something to be different, hoping maybe to see which direction her soul went, or maybe a sign to show me that there is a metaphysical chain reaction to something as powerful as life and death. I was looking up when I felt it. It was warm; actual heat. It was in my chest, surrounding my heart. I looked down and noticed for the first time that my aunt's eyes were open for the first time that day. She had taken one last look before crossing the bar. She must have thought we would be alright, but just for good measure, I think her energy, soul, Id, whatever you call it, touched us to let us know she would be alright too.

In the end I offer only this advice (even if I am incapable of following it) and that is to slow down, look around and enjoy the pure random.