Tuesday our aunt passed away after being ill a long time. She had had emphysema. For many years her husband had been her caregiver until he suddenly fell ill with cancer and died the summer before last. His widow spent her final year in a nursing home, living in a tiny studio into which her visitors could hardly squeeze. She could have moved to a bigger unit, but somehow preferred this more narrow space.
Theirs was a harmonious marriage built on a sharp practical division, in that she had nothing to do with the management of their financial affairs and was surprised on his death to be left with a considerable amount of money. What did it matter, though, really? She continued to live as she had, a habitual thriftiness which they both shared accentuated by his loss.
So often when a spouse departs, some life goes out of the living partner, too. Our aunt was not embittered, but the fullness went out of her life at that point, was reduced to the one dimension of her illness. And why was that anything to fight against now?
After many months in which she nonetheless struggled for every breath, she fell and broke her shoulder, and shortly afterward died. Living in the state of Washington, in the end she requested medicine to ease her passing.
The mother of three strong and stable children, she had had, when in health, an irreverent side, a spunkiness counterbalancing her underlying frailty, a fragility that became ever more pronounced, as her weight dropped below eighty, leaving her diminutive frame scarcely clothed in flesh.
Death comes in a second, so despite her illness, her death seems abrupt and even unreal. My husband and I have had long-standing plans to visit Seattle this week, where, in addition to celebrating my mother-in-law’s birthday, we will join our family in grieving this loss.
Janet says
I’m sorry for your loss, Celia.
Celia says
Thank you, Janet.
harley says
I’m sorry for your loss too. That is a nice picture to me kind of representing heaven.
Celia says
Thank you, Harley.
Jody says
Oh, Celia, thank you so much for this lovely tribute to our Mom. She would have liked it. It was so good to have you and your husband with us. You two did make the grief easier to bear.
Celia says
She was a dear soul, with two fine daughters and a son who showed her their love til the end of her days. Her steadfastness was impressive–yours, too. Take care, now, Jody, and thank you for writing in.
Celia says
The colored words in the post link back to two posts I wrote about your father’s final illness. It occurs to me that no one in the family has seen them because they were written in the early days of this blog:
“Morality”
“Our Uncle Died”
Peace and love.
Jody says
Thanks, Celia. Such thought provoking essays, so beautifully written. Your sincerity and affection are apparent in every word. Peace and love to you and your hubby.
PS Spill check is rally working here! Thanks for that too! 🙂
Rex says
Thank you Celia. What a beautiful tribute. You are absolutely correct in describing a loved one’s death as unreal, you can even go as far as saying surreal. She lived a good life–a life to be proud of. And she died a good death, with peace and dignity.
Celia says
Oh, Rex, I am sorry for your loss. We are thinking of you all with sympathy–luckily a part of your parents’ legacy lives on in you. You supported your mother and one another in a way that I admire very much. Celia
Celia says
I also wrote this post on hearing that your father had passed away.
Because it was one of the first posts I wrote on this blog, it’s possible that no one in the family has seen it.
Elizabeth says
I’m sorry for your loss. I hope the grieving process is going as well as can be expected.
Celia says
Thanks, Elizabeth. I feel better for having written something.