Not even a year after my grandmother died of breast cancer, my aunt (48 yrs old at the time) was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer. She was a rather modest individual (conservative in dress and spirituality), and she was very private (didn't talk about feelings or insecurities or sex). This cancer, in addition to being a devastating diagnosis, was deeply embarrassing to her. Over the course of two years, I watched her struggle with the reality she was facing and how she tried to keep her composure and dignity-the wrath of chemo and radiation, coming to grips with all she would never accomplish, how she explained to people that she had terminal cancer, and her fights with my mother (they had always fought as siblings do, but these were even worse).
I watched her slowly die.
It was not a quick and painless death. It was an evil, crawling-up-your-leg-and-gnawing-at-your kidneys type of death. I would take off days of work when she was having a "single moment" as she called them, just to sit with her or take her shopping to distract her. She would buy me a latte and talk to me about her positive spiritual approach to overcoming this terrible cancer. She tried hard to believe she would be spared. She was weak from chemo and pale as sheets. Her hair had almost completely fallen out, but before it did, I sat with her while she had Glamour Shots taken at ProEx camera. She said she wanted to look nice in her obituary photo. When they gave them to her and we left the store, she laughed and cried as she told me stories about all of the horrible obituary photos people put in of their loved ones, and how she wanted to go out with a bang and be remembered as beautiful. She had a sense of humor about it, which helped ease the tension.
My aunt was the mother I thought I should have had growing up (I think we all wish we had other mothers at challenging times... though I am certainly glad for mine now). She was funny as hell and always the rowdy one at family gatherings. She was in a theater rodeo in South Dakota in her 20's, was a flight attendant that hawked goods from Seoul, Korea, sold pagers back when those were a big deal, bought a house all by herself, became a realtor and made big money off of house sales to the very end (she actually sold a house from her death bed)... and she totally "got" me. More than my mother. She loved travel, she was in the dating scene, she went to concerts and liked to bend rules.
She was a free spirit that didn't want to fall into the typical steps of women. She wanted to explore and have adventures. She struggled with those "traditional" desires, though... which I also relate to. She wanted a husband and family, someone to love and nurture and share the joys of life with. She was hopelessly single and tried every sort of dating scheme out there... with no luck. What I admired about her most is that she never let it stop her from doing what she wanted to do.
When she was financially ready, she invested in a few properties and bought a beautiful 1904 Victorian. Everything she ever dreamed of in a house. English garden in the back (that I helped her build), million dollar view of downtown St. Paul and the Mississippi, and all of the prestige that goes with living in a historic neighborhood. I think she made choices along her path in life that brought on her singledom (she was very picky about men and unwilling to bend about quite a few things), but she didn't deserve to die with such agony and struggle, and certainly not feeling so alone. Sadly, that was her end. She had her sister and her sister's family, and we included her in everything... but it was not her own. We made due, but the ache was always there for her.
I watched her pass through the stages of death and held her on the couch. Her last conversation with me was painful and heartbreaking. I asked her if she was satisfied with all she had accomplished in life, and she told me "no." It shocked me. It wasn't what I wanted to hear from her. It was the truth. She told me she "needed more clarity," and "it wasn't fair." It haunts me. I never told my mother about that conversation because I thought it would break her heart.
I don't ever want to die knowing that I didn't do everything I wanted to do. Of course, It would be impossible to check every thing off of my bucket list since I keep adding to it, but I intend to pursue things. I don't want to end up feeling like I didn't give life my all. I don't want to die alone. I don't want to hold back because of guilt over how it's impacting other people, and I don't want to settle for less than I deserve.
All of that said, I was to inherit her house and all of the things within it were divided between myself and my two siblings. Most of the furniture stayed there. It was a beautiful house with an original mural of a forest/swamp scene around the perimeter of the dining room, a fully stocked kitchen that had heated floors, leather embossed paneling on the walls leading up the spiral staircase to upstairs. Seriously, this house was a dream. What I couldn't shake, though, was that this was someone ELSE'S dream. I wasn't me there-I was living out her life. My mom still referred to it as "Kim's house" and "Kim's couch" and "Kim's garden," and I knew, after trying to afford the mortgage for a year with roommates, that I needed to let go and get out. I was living in a museum and it would never leave my mother's mind. Leaving was the key. It was the only way for me to truly be happy. So I ditched it. Let my mom and dad sell it, quit my job and moved to Hawaii... my aunt's favorite place.
So here I am, three years later from when I first packed up that house and moved to Hawaii. I'm a little more certain I made the right choice. I think about my aunt all the time. I wish she was here today to share in my trials. I want to thank her for pushing me to get out there and do something with myself, instead of taking the easier path. It has been lonely and it has been uncomfortable, but I have grown in the most amazing ways. I have learned to love myself and to earn my way. I have suffered and I have gained. All from remembering that life is short.
Life IS short, and life is beautiful. Carpe diem.
