The First Hurdle

    Today, I mourn the loss of someone dear to me.

    I'm rubbish at eulogies. I had to deliver one at my grandmother's funeral several years ago, and I don't look forward to giving others down the road. How can I possibly summarize the long and lustrous life of someone in any sort of way that's conducive to its purpose?

    My Aunt Norma was a positively wonderful woman. She was my grandfather's sister, and though that relation technically makes her some sort of Great Aunt, she was always just Aunt Norma to us. 

    She lived across the river from us with her husband Mike. (He left this world when I was still a child, but I have fond memories of taking walks down to the railroad to watch the trains with him.) I remember that she cut hair in her basement. She had a proper salon down there, and I may have even had my hair done by her as a kid.

    We spent an abundance of Sunday evenings and holidays at her house, all crowded in around her massive table having family dinners together. She cooked delicious meals (as most aunts and matrons do, do they not?) and was especially fond of making the sort of Polish dishes that most Southwestern PA folks default to. She was always a bundle of sunshine when I was around, and always prepared a healthy abundance of food cooked with love.

    When I was very, very young, she'd often babysit me when my next-door grandparents couldn't manage. We unanimously agreed she was my best girl-friend and she'd put all my favorite movies on her VCR while she kept me company. I remember I often opted to sit on the nice, cool hardwood floor rather than her comfy couch. She'd sit and talk with me about all sorts of things (and oh, I talked a lot. Still do.)

    Though I was too young to really remember, I've been told a second-hand story numerous times about the first time she realized she might have memory problems.

    Apparently, she'd picked me up from preschool to take me back to my own home. I didn't live far, and it was a familiar trip for her. But she didn't get too far from the church before realizing she didn't remember how to get to my house. I'm told I helped her get back, told her where to turn the whole way there.

    She sought help after the fact, and was eventually diagnosed with early-onset dementia. I was much older by the time I started to notice her symptoms myself, but I'm sure there were plenty of unseen struggles she endured even up until that point. She got steadily worse over the years, and it was as difficult for us to watch as I'm sure it was for her to experience.

    But she never lost her light. She was always happy, always talkative even if she was losing the ability to speak coherently.

    I remember one particular family dinner, hosted at my grandparents' house next door years later. I'd have been a teenager by then. Aunt Norma was sitting with me in the dining room and I kept watch on her while everyone else cleaned up. I knew not to argue or dispute her when she didn't make sense, or misremembered things.

    So I talked with her, and got a heartfelt lesson from her on how to butter a paper napkin corner to corner, which had become one of her dinner pastimes. And when she really wanted to take that napkin and wrap a chocolate truffle with it, you best believe I went and got the tape and helped her do it. I loved her to bits. Still do, of course. So I listened, and I helped.

    It couldn't have been too many years later, that she was put into a nursing home, simply because she'd declined so far that she really needed that constant care. But even there, her son and daughter were almost always with her when they could be. Up to the very end, she was surrounded by people who loved her and wanted the best for her.

    She passed away this Saturday.

    Her viewing is this evening. I'm obviously looking forward to seeing all of my family gathered in one place, many of whom I haven't gotten a chance to visit with since moving away. But the nature of this gathering isn't lost on me, and I'm sad that our world has lost a bright and loving light. I take solace in knowing she's up there somewhere spending time with Uncle Mike now. I know they've missed each-other, and she's finally reunited with her wonderful husband in the great beyond.

    Hug your loved ones. Remind them that you love them. Find a reason to talk for a little while, if you can. Our time on this earth is fleeting at best, and deserves to be made the most of while we're here.

Until next time,
- Lily Marlene