Blog Challenge--Day 16

Day 16 - a song that makes you cry (or nearly)

Nearly?  How about ALWAYS?  Wow.  This list could be long.  But, I'll narrow it down to just one.  This one.

There are several occasions where this song is totally appropriate.  But for me, it brings back memories of one of the worst days of my life.  You see, I lost my only aunt very suddenly nine and a half years ago.  Wow.  I can't believe it's been that long.  Here's the story:

“Good-bye! I’ll see you next Sunday. I love you!” Aunt Sherla called as we piled into the car, ready to leave my grandmother’s house. It was nothing unusual. She said that when we left every Sunday.

“Okay. I love you, too,” I replied as I kissed her on the cheek. It was true. I did love her; but I didn’t always respond. She told me she loved me every single week; more often if I saw her.

Just the day before, we had been shopping for my birthday. I really needed to work on classwork, but I just couldn’t resist a day of shopping. Oh, how excited Aunt Sherla was about my birthday! My 21st. I was all grown up, now. She even bought herself a new dress—for Easter, I think. Then, she treated me to lunch, where we laughed so hard we wiped the tears away. Having no children of her own, and I being her only niece, I had always been her “special girl.” She was my second mom, and we always had a good time when we were together.

The following Friday, she called my mom to say their grandmother—my great-grandmother—was doing worse. They talked at length to devise a plan so my grandmother would not go visit alone if she was called in the middle of the night. We all knew the end was near, and we were at peace with it. After all, “Donald,” as we called her, was 95 years old.

I was up late that night. Usually, I am not a night owl, but I just couldn’t get to sleep for some reason. I read, I watched TV, I carefully examined the TV Guide advertisements. For some strange reason, I remember noticing the “Pall Mall” advertisement for the first time, and thinking that it was a very morbid name for a cigarette—“pall” means coffin; as in “pall bearers.” Finally, at about 2:00 or so, I drifted off to sleep.

Startled, I jumped like I’d been shot when the phone rang at 3:30. Instantly, my mind went to my frail great-grandmother. Surely, she is nearing the end or, maybe, is already gone. Out of habit, I picked up the receiver in my bedroom—just in time to hear my uncle’s voice say to my father, “Sherla’s dead.” NO! I couldn’t have heard him right. I had just talked to her a few hours ago. She was perfectly fine. She had even emailed my brother about her NCAA tournament bracket. So, this couldn’t be happening. I had misunderstood.

Alarmed, I raced out my bedroom door and nearly ran into my dad. “What’s wrong?” I asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

“Aunt Sherla died,” he blurted out.

“What?” I asked again.

“Aunt Sherla is dead!” he said sternly—a little too sternly, maybe. “Come on, we’ve got to get dressed.”

My clothes probably didn’t match that day. I couldn’t tell you. Quickly, I flung my hair into a ponytail, and we were off to my uncle’s house. I think I cried all the way there. The fog that covered my mind allowed for little comprehension of my surroundings, yet somehow the song on the radio struck me:

Last night I had a crazy dream

A wish was granted just for me

It could be for anything

I didn’t ask for money

Or a mansion in Malibu

I simply wished for one more day with you.

No one else seemed to notice the song, so I tried to ignore its powerful lyrics, but as the chorus droned on, my throat got tighter and tighter. …I know what it would do; leave me wishing still for one more day with you. This was more than I could bear, and I asked my father to turn it off. Hearing it even now, nearly nine and a half years later, my mind goes back to that drab March morning when its lyrics spoke the words my soul could not bear to hear.

We arrived just as the ambulance was leaving. Everyone was falling apart. All my grandmother could do was cry; mom tried to console her. Uncle Tom couldn’t take the “crowd,” so he went outside. Nobody knew what to say to anybody else, so when neighbors stopped by to offer their condolences, I answered their questions. Never in my life had I done anything as hard, nor have I since.

The next few days passed in a blur. My whole body seemed numb. Sure, I was in the right place—the funeral home—but that couldn’t really be my aunt up there in that box! She was only 55. She was retiring in June. We’d already made plans to go out after my college graduation next December. She was supposed to help me pick out a wedding dress when I finally decided to get married. She was even going to get a new dress for herself and walk down the aisle, like the other “special” people, as she called them. None of those things had happened yet, so I knew this was all a mistake. It was just some horrible nightmare stemmed from reading lame cigarette ads in the TV Guide before going to bed. I’d surely wake up from this soon.

Nevertheless, the funeral came and went. We dressed her in the new blue dress she’d bought for Easter. I guess it wasn’t a dream, after all. A sudden, massive heart attack had claimed the life of my precious aunt. At least she went quickly; there was no suffering. After the funeral, my uncle hugged me and slipped something into my hand. I guess he could see the confusion in my eyes, so he explained, “I want you to have it. Go on, now.” Carefully opening my hand, I was surprised to see my aunt’s wedding ring nestled in my palm. Tearfully, I looked up at my uncle, who whispered, “I’m sure she would have wanted you to have it.”

I spent the next week trying to get back to “normal.” Could I ever really do that? I didn’t even know what normal was anymore. The next Sunday dinner at Nana’s house was awkward. My seat had been right next to Aunt Sherla’s, and my grandmother now filled it. I love my grandmother dearly, but I didn’t want her to sit there. Not yet, anyway. I just couldn’t bear it. Difficult as it was, I had to be strong. Nobody else could be. So, I just choked down my lunch and offered encouragement when it was needed. It felt as if someone had suctioned all the oxygen out of the room. Nobody felt like talking; nobody felt like smiling. Would we ever again share the stories and jokes that were once part of the regular Sunday dinner table?

Yes.  Because life goes on.  We remember our loved ones gone on, but time does indeed heal those wounds left when they pass on.  J now sits where my beloved aunt once did.  She'd have loved him.  I know she would have.  And oh, how I wish I could talk to her once more.  If anybody in my family understood IF, she would have.  I know she'd have been nothing but supportive throughout our upcoming IVF cycle.  She had endometriosis.  It just so happens that she was expecting when my mom was expecting me, but she had a miscarriage.  It must have been hard for her to even be happy about my arrival.  But she was.  She loved me more than anything in this world (well, except for my brother).  If I'm half the aunt she was, I'm doing okay.

It's fitting that this post came today.  I've thought a lot about Aunt Sherla today.  You see, today would have been her 65th birthday. 

Happy birthday, Aunt Sherla. 

Hugs and baby dust,