(no subject)
my aunt sharon died yesterday morning.
i just stared at that sentence for a few seconds. it hasn't really cemented itself yet in my perception of reality; the sensations come and go. it's almost a big, selfish relief when the pain stops... though it's not so much that it stops that the explosive, sharp piercing feeling subsides to a dull ache. it's during those moments that i can briefly summon the energy to focus on things like turning on the stove or brushing my teeth, before it shortly comes back to me that she's really dead. she was cremated this morning. she donated her eyes. my eyes are burning from sobbing.
she was (it's so strange to use the past tense) a tall, thin woman with the same prominent brow and dark eyes as my father. she had a prominent, aquiline nose. she had a very good, somewhat zany sense of humor. and above all, she was smart. she reminded me of my father, obviously, but the proximity of their minds served to highlight where they diverged. i respected her tremendously; even at the zenith of my teenage spite, i recognized her wisdom. as i put it to my father once, "i never found her ridiculous" (which means a lot in my family). she and i had a mutual admiration that had just begun to develop, in accordance with my own cognition. the realization that we will never transcend the superficial familial ties to the true camaraderie and understanding of adults feels like being choked.
she was diagnosed with cancer last fall, and when i found out i was initially devastated. the shock diminished quite quickly and before long i thought of the diagnosis as a problem that could, and would, be solved. i found myself offering counsel to my distraught father, which in light of recent events seems laughably atrocious. "don't overwhelmn her," i solemnly advised when he told me he'd called three times in two days. "she's very upset and can just handle the needs of her immediate family, if that. she needs to rest, she needs to preserve strength. let some time pass first."
it turns out that i took my own advice far too well. i thought of calling; i didn't. i started four emails that never got past the first few sentences. i had no idea what to say. everything came out flippant or fatalistic, hackneyed or unconcerned. it was all gibberish, bleak gibberish that i never sent. then enough time passed so that these doomed rough drafts started with justifications for the time i'd spent dawdling. those were worse. and so months passed during which i was silent. i arranged a trip to portland in january, thinking that all would be resolved when i saw her. then, i thought, i could sit with her, convey to her how much she meant to me and how very sorry i was, hold her hand. laugh with her, because she was a woman who could really see the humor in things.
(was. using the past tense is ineffably disheartening. used to exist; doesn't now, as of 6:00 am yesterday morning. i found out last night around 10:30, six hours after my father heard from the father of my cousins. he showed up at my door around 10, as i was driving a friend home; i saw him on the street right as i turned onto venice boulevard. had he come a few minutes later, i would have missed him. he waited until we were alone to tell me. i spent that last half hour of ignorance chirpily babbling about school. how agonizing that must have been for him.)
when i made my way up to portland, i in actuality only got to see her for about two minutes. she had picked up a rental car with my grandmother. she looked very gray, and quite ill; it was striking. during the rest of my stay, she was working; the one day we had planned to have dinner, she was too sick from the chemotherapy. i should have hijacked my grandma's rental car and drove over anyway. i don't know if i will ever forgive that day's passivity, even if it was out of respect for her wishes. but now there's this gaping abyss of questions unanswered, words unspoken, and things undone.
there is only one thing i did in the course of her illness that i'm not sorry for, and i can accredit it to my grandmother. she placed a postcard in front of me with a picture of a rainbow on it, with "GET WELL SOON" in big bold letters. "send that to her," she told me, "it'll make her feel good." i explained to my grandmother that i would never send such a thing, and because i was still under the impression that i would see her that sunday, i thought such an exercise was a waste of time. but to appease her, i took out a piece of paper and wrote her a letter, in which i expressed the shame that i had felt for my inaction. it wasn't an excuse, or justification. i presented to her what i had and hadn't done, what i had felt, and how much i loved her. then i left and got stoned with some friends (i really hate myself right now).
that sunday morning, when i found out that i would not be seeing her, my gut reaction was anger. i will be ashamed of that forever. it was then that it really hit me how dire the circumstances could be. i called her, and we spoke for about twenty minutes, during which i cried. she said she had cried when she had read my letter. we told each other that we loved one another. this conversation is now one of the most significant i have ever had. as of yesterday morning, it has attained the status of the last time i ever spoke to her.
my cousin called on sunday to tell me that she had had a stroke. i was moving into the new apartment that day, and i spent it in a morbid silence, alternating between crying and unpacking. i left her two messages which i doubt she heard. i resolved that morning to go up to portland for spring break. i didn't realize her life would extend for only another four days. i don't think any of us did. bracing oneself for heartbreak is, i think, very much impossible.
my grandmother has a very simple outlook: god is with us all the time. he is all around us. how it feels to outlive your own daughter is something i cannot begin to comprehend, but this morning on the phone as i choked out my inquiries, she said, "sharon is sleeping with the angels." for those of us without this basic support system, death is a hard thing to wrap one's mind around. it's a chaotic mess of an existence when a 55-year-old dies before her 91-year-old mother. it's a nonsensical joke when she's removed from the midst of her husband and two children, the youngest of whom is my age. it's cruel, sick nonsense. and how i envy my grandmother for being able to think it's anything else.
we're flying to portland for the funeral next saturday. i can only hope that in a week from now this will all make more sense. life's going to be hard without her to laugh with.
i love you, sharon. kisses to your eyelids.
i just stared at that sentence for a few seconds. it hasn't really cemented itself yet in my perception of reality; the sensations come and go. it's almost a big, selfish relief when the pain stops... though it's not so much that it stops that the explosive, sharp piercing feeling subsides to a dull ache. it's during those moments that i can briefly summon the energy to focus on things like turning on the stove or brushing my teeth, before it shortly comes back to me that she's really dead. she was cremated this morning. she donated her eyes. my eyes are burning from sobbing.
she was (it's so strange to use the past tense) a tall, thin woman with the same prominent brow and dark eyes as my father. she had a prominent, aquiline nose. she had a very good, somewhat zany sense of humor. and above all, she was smart. she reminded me of my father, obviously, but the proximity of their minds served to highlight where they diverged. i respected her tremendously; even at the zenith of my teenage spite, i recognized her wisdom. as i put it to my father once, "i never found her ridiculous" (which means a lot in my family). she and i had a mutual admiration that had just begun to develop, in accordance with my own cognition. the realization that we will never transcend the superficial familial ties to the true camaraderie and understanding of adults feels like being choked.
she was diagnosed with cancer last fall, and when i found out i was initially devastated. the shock diminished quite quickly and before long i thought of the diagnosis as a problem that could, and would, be solved. i found myself offering counsel to my distraught father, which in light of recent events seems laughably atrocious. "don't overwhelmn her," i solemnly advised when he told me he'd called three times in two days. "she's very upset and can just handle the needs of her immediate family, if that. she needs to rest, she needs to preserve strength. let some time pass first."
it turns out that i took my own advice far too well. i thought of calling; i didn't. i started four emails that never got past the first few sentences. i had no idea what to say. everything came out flippant or fatalistic, hackneyed or unconcerned. it was all gibberish, bleak gibberish that i never sent. then enough time passed so that these doomed rough drafts started with justifications for the time i'd spent dawdling. those were worse. and so months passed during which i was silent. i arranged a trip to portland in january, thinking that all would be resolved when i saw her. then, i thought, i could sit with her, convey to her how much she meant to me and how very sorry i was, hold her hand. laugh with her, because she was a woman who could really see the humor in things.
(was. using the past tense is ineffably disheartening. used to exist; doesn't now, as of 6:00 am yesterday morning. i found out last night around 10:30, six hours after my father heard from the father of my cousins. he showed up at my door around 10, as i was driving a friend home; i saw him on the street right as i turned onto venice boulevard. had he come a few minutes later, i would have missed him. he waited until we were alone to tell me. i spent that last half hour of ignorance chirpily babbling about school. how agonizing that must have been for him.)
when i made my way up to portland, i in actuality only got to see her for about two minutes. she had picked up a rental car with my grandmother. she looked very gray, and quite ill; it was striking. during the rest of my stay, she was working; the one day we had planned to have dinner, she was too sick from the chemotherapy. i should have hijacked my grandma's rental car and drove over anyway. i don't know if i will ever forgive that day's passivity, even if it was out of respect for her wishes. but now there's this gaping abyss of questions unanswered, words unspoken, and things undone.
there is only one thing i did in the course of her illness that i'm not sorry for, and i can accredit it to my grandmother. she placed a postcard in front of me with a picture of a rainbow on it, with "GET WELL SOON" in big bold letters. "send that to her," she told me, "it'll make her feel good." i explained to my grandmother that i would never send such a thing, and because i was still under the impression that i would see her that sunday, i thought such an exercise was a waste of time. but to appease her, i took out a piece of paper and wrote her a letter, in which i expressed the shame that i had felt for my inaction. it wasn't an excuse, or justification. i presented to her what i had and hadn't done, what i had felt, and how much i loved her. then i left and got stoned with some friends (i really hate myself right now).
that sunday morning, when i found out that i would not be seeing her, my gut reaction was anger. i will be ashamed of that forever. it was then that it really hit me how dire the circumstances could be. i called her, and we spoke for about twenty minutes, during which i cried. she said she had cried when she had read my letter. we told each other that we loved one another. this conversation is now one of the most significant i have ever had. as of yesterday morning, it has attained the status of the last time i ever spoke to her.
my cousin called on sunday to tell me that she had had a stroke. i was moving into the new apartment that day, and i spent it in a morbid silence, alternating between crying and unpacking. i left her two messages which i doubt she heard. i resolved that morning to go up to portland for spring break. i didn't realize her life would extend for only another four days. i don't think any of us did. bracing oneself for heartbreak is, i think, very much impossible.
my grandmother has a very simple outlook: god is with us all the time. he is all around us. how it feels to outlive your own daughter is something i cannot begin to comprehend, but this morning on the phone as i choked out my inquiries, she said, "sharon is sleeping with the angels." for those of us without this basic support system, death is a hard thing to wrap one's mind around. it's a chaotic mess of an existence when a 55-year-old dies before her 91-year-old mother. it's a nonsensical joke when she's removed from the midst of her husband and two children, the youngest of whom is my age. it's cruel, sick nonsense. and how i envy my grandmother for being able to think it's anything else.
we're flying to portland for the funeral next saturday. i can only hope that in a week from now this will all make more sense. life's going to be hard without her to laugh with.
i love you, sharon. kisses to your eyelids.