I'm about to turn 53, so I have been wondering, is it my age? Have I hit an expiration date of some sort? An expiration date for joy? For life? Did I use up what has been allotted to me? Did I go too hard without worrying about the end of it all, so now I need to be taught a lesson? I've been living like I am the age I feel, not the amount of time I have been here. Is that not okay? Is the Universe trying to warn me that my own death is coming sooner than I want it to?
A few months ago, I was hanging out with my longtime friend, Leisa. She mentioned that so many people were dying that she was starting to get anxious when the phone would ring. At first, I chalked it up to her being popular and coming from a larger, blended family, full of nieces and nephews and grandkids of all ages. But my perspective changed when my aunt passed away in July.
Before my aunt passed, my son and I spent time with her in the mornings before work. It was hard for her to talk, and we could barely hear her when she did speak, but one day, she said two things very clearly to me:
- I didn't think it would be like this.
- I'm going to miss you.
...
To say I was stunned would be an understatement. To say my heart didn't break for her would be a lie. I had so many questions:What did you think dying would be like? When did you start thinking
about it? Did you do things to bring your expectations to life? Did it not
work? Did you find out there’s a master plan that we can't control?
Instead of asking questions that sounded rude, and instead of making her speak when she was having a hard time, I held her hand and said, "I'm going to miss you too. We're here with you. Max and I just want you to know that we are here with you." A week or so later, she was transported from her home to the hospital, then a few weeks later, she was transferred to a nursing home, and she transitioned into hospice just hours before she passed away.
Every time my son and I went to see her at home or in the facilities, Max would bring her a picture that he drew—of her house, of the birds she loved, of a heart, probably his heart, so full of compassion and love for his great-aunt. Full of perspective and experience gained by this sad situation.
Max is an artist, and 2022 was hard for him too. He is sensitive, he loves his family, and he worries about all of us more than he should. He had been struggling to make art. His motivation and inspiration seemed to have been tampered with by negative forces that crowded him. They sucked up his strength and his joy, and eventually he was too weak to fight them off, so he stopped creating and took a rest until my aunt needed him to begin again.
Although she smiled and said she appreciated it, in my aunt's pain and discomfort, in her refusal to eat or drink, she prepared to die. She developed some kind of tunnel vision about her situation. She saw doctors, and medicine, and visitors coming to see her, but what affected her most was when she saw them leaving her. It appeared as if she felt alone in her disappointment about how the end turned out.
I mean, I get it. We start out as babies, totally dependent, hopefully held, and cuddled, and loved, until we are big enough to squirm out of arms that long to hold us forever. Until we need freedom and space because we ache to explore, and taste, and touch, and feel, and experience. 
Until we try to control our path, to achieve our hopes, and dreams, and goals.
It is only when we can't let go of that control and live in the moments that life takes us to that we experience disappointment. When we forget what it was like to be young and strong and open to every option the world lays at our feet. When we forget that our true power lies in our minds. When we forget that young and strong are not temporary conditions. That their lack of permanence is determined by our expectations and beliefs. By beliefs that are just thoughts you think over and over again. Imagine if you trained yourself to center on positive feelings, ideas, and images. Imagine if you let the contrast of negative thoughts lead you to good thoughts. And imagine if you did that on purpose.
The end of my aunt's life might not be what she imagined, expected, or wanted it to be, but her end meant something to those of us she touched. She gave Max a reason to create art. Not for monetary gain or respect in the cultural community. For his great-aunt. Out of love and humanity. To cheer her up. To allow her the chance to see the things she was unable to enjoy from her place of discomfort. To let her know that he was there for her, with her, until her last day with us. She gifted him with a reminder of his passion for creating—he has continued to develop projects with an excitement I haven't seen in a long time.
That excitement was missing in me too. Even though I expected to be busy working toward the release of a new book, and I looked forward to publishing my new project, I couldn't get it done. Readers had been begging for new work, waiting for it, and getting angry at me for not releasing it sooner. I set a date. I set expectations. But the weight of the year got too heavy for me. I started dropping things: I dropped out of social media, I dropped my regular writing schedule, I dropped this blog, I dropped all of the touring and traveling I was doing with my books, I dropped my manuscript in a file and forgot about it. I dropped out of life and stopped feeling things because it was just too much.
I tinkered with DIY home projects and cooked. I pretended that I was accomplishing things, but I was really avoiding my true self. The one who allows herself to feel and learn from the good and the bad, the light and the dark. It took a minute for me to come back. In retrospect, I have forgiven myself for needing to put my emotions up on a mental ottoman, to let them rest for a second. I have forgiven the excuses that took me away from my work: If I was too tired to support myself, what good would I be to my readers? How could I bring them the same catharsis and insight that I gave them with the first book?
I finally realized that in her death, my aunt brought me back to life. She was my biggest fan when it came to my writing. She read everything I wrote, and she told everyone she spoke to about me. "My niece writes the most wonderful books. She even wrote a book about her grandmother. They are on Amazon. You can't borrow my books, but you can order them." All I had to say to someone she knew was, I am the niece who is the author, and they would nod and smile because they already knew all about me.
My aunt's death was tough. She was there for myself, my brothers, and my cousins in ways that always seemed to be behind the scenes. She played the supporting role that is often lost in the shadow of bigger stars. But if that character was absent, no matter how talented the main characters were, there would be no show. My aunt lived with my grandmother her entire life. And she let my grandmother have the spotlight—as the beloved matriarch, the glue who kept the family together, the sweet soul who fed us on holidays, and the one who hugged and kissed us for every reason or for no reason at all. But my aunt was the one who supported my grandmother—financially, emotionally, quietly and always in the background. She was my grandmother's best friend, her caregiver at the end of her life, the one who clung to her mother even after we urged her to let her go. Even though we wanted her to live her life.
Without my aunt, there would not have been presents piled higher than our elementary school heads in her sunroom every Christmas. Presents signed Love and From others, even though it was my aunt who handpicked every one of them. Without my aunt, she and my grandmother would not have bought a house and moved closer to us. They would not have kept the pool they did not have the energy or desire to take care of, just so us kids could swim in it in the summers. There would have been none of the Sundays I will always treasure—me escaping the confines of my own home and spending all day with my aunt in her office. Learning how to be organized. Talking about things that bothered me. Drinking 7-Up she always kept on hand and in stock just for me because she knew I didn't like colas.
Watching her physical body fade did not erase any of the memories or the imprints she left on me. In fact, they sharpened them. With some time and space, the gratitude that has always bubbled under the surface has evolved into a deeper understanding of how much good we are capable of doing without knowing it. It has evolved into an understanding that if we could stay aware of the fact that our words and actions do have long reaching effects, we could do much more good.
Her death has inspired me to get back to my writing. To get my work in progress over the finish line and into the hands that need it the most. It has inspired me to write this post. To hopefully reach those who are mourning—a loved one's death, the loss of their own inner light—and to inspire them into living again. For the joy of it. For the fun of it. For themselves and those they touch. I do not want to reach the end of my life and utter the same words my aunt did—This is not how I thought it was going to be. Instead, right now, I want to end every day by saying, This was better than I thought it was going to be. I am having more good days than bad, and the bad has led me to more good. I want to say this until it is a core belief. And until there are no more days that start and end for me.
At my aunt's wake, no one gave a eulogy or a few words in her memory. I hope that this post is representative of some of the thoughts and feelings my family might have shared had we done that. For today, Aunt Mary, you are the star of something I wrote. Not a chorus member in the background. Thank you for everything you contributed to me being me, both in life and now in death. I hope that you can read this and feel what is behind it. I hope that you are with Grandma and Mitzi, and all your beloved family and pets, enjoying their company and their love.
I hope that you are finally in a place where you are not afraid and you can say, Wow. This is so much better than I thought it would be. And I hope that you know you don't have to miss me. I am right here, thinking of you every day.
CF Winn is the award-winning author of The COFFEE BREAK SERIES, a quirky group of shorter novels that are meant to be read while on a lunch break or in the waiting room of the doctor’s office. Her first novella, SUKI, has been grabbing hearts and hugging souls all over the United States. The sequel, WHEN DWAYNE DIED, is coming soon.
The BOOKLIFE PRIZE (a division of Publisher's Weekly) has praised CF WINN's MOORE THAN MEETS THE EYE: "This novel is a unique and original storyline that readers will likely find much enjoyment in. Winn's fiercely plotted storyline makes for a suspenseful read. Every plot point feels as if it is being revealed at precisely the right moment. Winn's word choice makes for a joyful ride through unexpectedly dark terrain."
CF Winn's blogs have been syndicated on multiple sites including The Masquerade Crew. More posts like these can be found at Humor Outcasts and The Patch where she is a regular contributor.
FOLLOW her on Twitter, Facebook, and CF_Winn on Instagram.
No comments:
Post a Comment