A few words on dying . . . .

A little part of me died today. (Good riddance, by the way.) The part that died is the immature little kid who can't take the rough stuff of a sick, dying relative; the one that is so busy crying, she can't even say the things that need to be said, or hug and kiss that saint of a woman lying in a hospital bed who played such a big part in my whole entire life that I consider her a second mother.

I made myself stay until I could speak. I held that puny, whiny little kid-self down under the waters of reality and drowned it mercilessly: my bare hands around its throat while it twitched in the throes of death. Then stillness and calm took over.

I sat beside her and held her hand. Unable to keep check on her pulse because of tremors in her body, I watched a spot on her neck where the skin would rise and fall with each pump of her heart. It was irregular, but ever present: she is not yet ready to go.

Her breathing is shallow, and her body is too tired to allow her to speak. She acknowledged me with her eyebrows, and nodded or shook her head in answer to simple questions. This small amount of response let me know that she saw me: she heard me. My cousin and I exchanged memories of our childhood spent in the far corners of Aunt Estelle's yard eating wild onions and sneaking cherry tomatoes ("tommy-toes") right off the vine. In the house, cousin Melanie and I would eat peanut butter on a spoon right from the jar and drink ginger ale from Auntie's beautiful green glasses and pretend it was caviar and champagne. Auntie almost smiled at that one.

I was able to say "thank you" for a few things, too. I thanked her for always having instant grits available for my breakfast, for letting me drink out of those fancy green glasses that accompanied her best china, for always keeping a bagful of little sample lipsticks from Avon in all the colors a proper lady might choose to wear when she dressed up, for allowing me to rummage in the drawers of her daughter's (my cousin Martha's) dressing table where she kept hairbows and makeup, for allowing me to play with lightening bugs and sleep on a palette in the living room floor.

We talked about how her husband, Uncle Troy (dead ten years now) ate Total cereal for breakfast every morning of his life, and watched only ball games and the news on his TV no matter how much we whined to watch Gilligan's Island or Bewitched. I talked about her taking me downtown to Pizitz for a day of shopping, and letting me ride the escalators all the way up to the 6th floor and back. Martha said HER preference was to be left in the hat department, which Aunt Estelle always did and then collected us when she was done shopping and ready to leave the parking deck down the spiral ramp, which was always a thrill.

We laughed and talked and remembered, and Aunt Estelle would squeeze my hand or raise her eyebrows or almost smile in agreement with us. It was a wonderful way to spend the day, after the death of pathetic kid-self.

I'm so glad I was with her today, and I would love it if I could be there when she dies. I would be thrilled to hear her last breath and watch the peace with which she leaves this world. She is certain of what awaits her beyond the last pump of her heart, and I need to be there. I'm going to take the laptop and sit with her tonight, working on my final paper of the semester between talking sessions and listening to her shallow breath for any indication of change. My cousins have all been so faithful to be with her every day of this last hospital stay, just as she has been faithful with every member of the family who has been hospitalized.

To Aunt Estelle:
Whenever you're ready to leave, I'm ready to let you. I release you, and you don't have to worry about my fear of your dying. Thank you for all you've done and all you've been in my life. Thank you for a lifetime of giving and sharing.
Love,
Becky