Two weeks ago Sunday, my aunt died. We weren't close; it's just that she had always been part of the bedrock in my life, and now she's gone. Both her and my uncle (her husband) are gone.
My mom called Sunday morning, could barely get through the explanation of my aunt's dire condition. I packed our bags, and my daughter and I drove home. Based on some previous life experience, I knew when my mother said, "her kidneys aren't functioning, there's something seriously wrong with her liver, and she's refusing care," that it wouldn't be long.
When I got home, my mom's house was chaotic: both my sisters and their kids were there, and mom's plumbing was clogged beyond repair. I hung out for an hour or so before I even mentioned my aunt, even though I knew her death was imminent. I knew because when my sister-in-law died, it sounded similar. I knew because of the pain in my mom's voice when she called me. When we had finally mobilized & were headed out the door, we got the call.
My cousin had been sitting with her for hours. She left to get some dinner; she left my aunt with some dear friends, and before she could pay the tab, my aunt was gone.
My cousin said it couldn't have been more than a half hour, and my aunt sounded fine before. She never would have left had she known. But I think my aunt was waiting.
See, my aunt had been sick before. First, when she was very young, scarlet fever. Then some reproductive issues following the birth of her 3rd child which nearly killed her twice, but she pulled through. She suffered a hysterectomy & a blood transfusion, but she survived. Then cancer. She beat it once, then twice. Years and years of her life used up in doctor's offices, forcing herself to suppress the gag reflex every time she had to swallow her chemo (in pill form). We were all thankful she didn't lose her hair. Then about 3 years ago, my uncle was diagnosed with lung cancer. She watched helplessly as he died slowly, painfully.
At some point before my uncle got really bad, but after he had been diagnosed, we know the doctors detected a spot on her liver. The day after my aunt passed, we spent much time discussing what happened. One of the attending physicians called my cousin to apologize because he had no idea she would die so quickly. Seemingly everyone was surprised. But I did not feel surprised. It made sense to me.
See, when my aunt got that call about the spot on her liver, we think she knew she had cancer. We think, or it's my great suspicion, anyway, that my aunt simply chose right then and there that she was done. No more needles, no more x-rays, scans, pills. She was done. It must have been so hard for her to watch my uncle die of cancer, him being the healthy one, the rock we all just assumed would always be there.
Whatever was on her liver; it could have been cancer, but it also could easily have been cirrhosis or something else: it went untreated. She knew it would probably kill her, but she chose to live her last years without hospital visits, tests, phone calls, medications, x-rays, scans, forms, insurance, and lengthy waits in doctor's offices. She made that decision, and I admire her for it. She only returned to the hospital because she had so much pain. She would not allow the doctors to do anything except manage her pain. She wouldn't even allow the nurses to turn her. She was done. So how can we assume that the hour of her death was anything but a decision? How much strength must it have taken for her to refuse medical care? For her to delay the relief of her pain until my cousin left so she didn't have to see her mother die?
I stand in awe of my aunt's strength. I'm amazed at this woman, at the strength in her life, and the strength in her death. She chose the end of her life. She spared us the pain of yet another illness. She spared her daughter the experience of her death. In her death, she was loving her family as much as she was living her life. We all have flaws in our life, but these are the lessons I'm taking from my aunt: that of strength, of difficult decisions made, of loving. I miss her very much, but I'm thankful for these lessons.
