My aunt died two weeks ago. I've avoided the topic here, since I haven't really known what to say. But this afternoon is her funeral and I feel like it's time to begin grieving more fully.
It was very sudden. I got a text pretty early in the morning from my brother David, who had heard from our cousin: "Aunt Karen in hospital with aneurysm. Not long to live." She had gone into cardiac arrest in the night, never regained consciousness and was not responding to any treatment.
I was shocked. Truth be told, I thought it was a prank of some kind. Not one my brother would do, of course, but maybe that somehow, someone had gotten ahold of his phone and texted people they knew were related to him. I know it doesn't make sense, but neither did his text. How could Auntie Karen be in the hospital? How could she not have long to live?
I wandered around the house all day, texting my siblings, trying to get more information. My parents were on a cruise, on their "out to sea" day, so we were having a hard time getting ahold of them. Karen was my dad's sister; he is the oldest of four and she was number 3.
Part of what has been difficult in this process is that I'm forced to confront my own parents' immortality. I thought I had years still, and hopefully I do. My grandmother, Karen's mom, died just 6 1/2 years ago and 94, so there is definitely longevity in the family. That's partly why it was so shocking that someone from that generation, my dad's age group, was dying. I am in no way prepared for the loss of my parents.
And this aunt never had children of her own. She married later in life, to a man who had been married before and had two small boys of his own. I think they might have wanted to have more but it never worked out and so Karen played a greater role in my life because of that. While we lived in Texas I didn't see her that often, but since being out here for the last 18 years (!), we've seen her a lot. She was at every major event in my life - high school, college and grad school graduation; bridal shower and wedding; she came over after we moved in to our house, to ohh and ahh over my decorating. She helped throw my baby shower and gave gifts to each of our kids after they were born. She's been at every Mother's Day Tea at my parents' house of the last few years and she and my uncle always spend Christmas dinner with our side of the family.
As I grieved that day, still not knowing fully what was going on or how serious it was, I thought over all the things that were special about this aunt. She was, as Ian always referred to her, my "Armenian aunt." She had big hair, fake eyelashes, lots of bangles on her wrists and manicured finger nails. Her style never varied; she was impervious to the changing fashions. But aside from her distinctive look, she was caring and thoughtful and generous. She was vivacious and full of life. Karen told it like it was. She loved dishes and jewelry and throwing parties. As her own mother failed, she cared for her sweetly and consistently. As I've gotten older and understood more about our family and Karen's life, I see now that it hasn't always been an easy life. But she didn't complain and she was grateful for all the God had given her.
As the afternoon was nearing, I began to feel that I wanted to go to the hospital. My amazing husband, who was also on all the text messages, called after school was out and asked if I wanted him to come home right away. My sister Sarah was already at the hospital. We had since found out that it wasn't actually an aneurysm but a pulmonary embolism and that she most certainly would not make it.
I told Ian I would like to go, so he hurried home and I headed out. I didn't know at that time, thankfully, how much I was racing against the clock. As I arrived at the hospital, about 35 minutes from our house, I went into Karen's room and straight into the arms of our grieving family. I cried as I saw Auntie Karen on the bed, cried as I hugged Sarah, cried as I hugged Uncle Dan, Karen's husband. I hugged Dan's sons, my other aunt and uncle who had driven down from Santa Barbara and then made my way over to Karen's side. I held her hand, told her how nice her nails looked, and then prayed that God would work a miracle. As I was holding her hand and talking to her, I noticed her heart rate dropping on the monitor. 52, 46, 35, 20, 12, flat line. I looked around, to see if other people were noticing this, if something should be done. My uncle's sister is a nurse and she called Dan over, telling him it was "happening." I let go of Karen's hand and moved to the end of the bed, as everyone crowded around her. She was gone.
We began to praise God for her peaceful passing and also to say aloud things we loved about her. It was a sweet time to be there with family and a sorrowful time of grieving a life that ended too soon. She was just 66. After Dan had a few minutes alone with her, Sarah and I invited everyone back to my parents' place to have dinner and continue talking about Karen. They have a hide-a-key, whose location is known to all of us, so we let ourselves in and ordered some pizza. We all hunkered down around the table, talking about Karen some of the time, and some of the time just talking about life. We heard how Karen and Dan first met; we heard that one of my other cousins is pregnant with their second child. I asked Dan what had happened in the middle of the night, and heard how she had gotten up to go the bathroom, fainted, and never regained consciousness. My heart broke for this man who did not get to say good-bye. We heard about Dan's grandsons and we talked about Karen's recent trip to New York. It was just what you would think of, when family is together, trying to be normal on a day that has been life-shattering.
Yesterday, Sarah and I made three trays of paklava, for the 80+ "immediate" family members that will gather at my parents' house after the funeral and public reception. It was cathartic and right, to make a recipe that's been a part of our larger family gatherings for years.
And today, we go to celebrate her life and mourn her loss. I am pretty sure I'm going to be very sad, especially as my mom shares about this woman who was 13 when they met and a bridesmaid in her wedding. I have so many memories of my mom and Auntie Karen laughing - they were often very silly together, 50 years ago and last month.
It will be good to say goodbye, all together. But her loss will be felt; maybe not every single day (for me), but at family gatherings and Mother's Day and when I use my Lenox Christmas dishes, some of which she gave me.
I love you, Auntie Karen, and while I'm thankful you're with our Lord and Savior, I will miss you.
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