My 93-year-old aunt passed away
last Saturday. She’d had a stroke, and after 3 days in the hospital, she was
taken home to my parents’ house where she lived. Because her stroke was large,
her chances of rehabilitation were small, and because her advance medical
directive stated that she wanted no feeding tube or other artificial measures
taken to prolong her life, it was decided that she would enter home hospice.
Watching her die is one of the
most painful things I have ever experienced. Perhaps the hardest thing was
watching her waste away, witnessing the slow biological process of her organs
shutting down, her body consuming itself from the inside out. But her face was
always beautiful; when you love someone, they remain beautiful no matter what, even
if they are only skin and bones.
The hospice nurses were there 24
hours a day. They changed her bedding and turned her body so she wouldn’t get
pressure sores. And they administered morphine for her pain. I spent as much time
as I could by her bedside, holding her hand and praying and sometimes just
watching her breathe.
When I was young, she had helped
raise me and my three siblings. She changed our diapers and carried us and held
our hands. She did our laundry and made our meals. She was the one I ran to
when I was scared or hurt. She was like a mother to me. Watching her in her
hospice bed, I cried for her like a baby cries for its mother. I missed her
already, regretted not spending more time with her when I could have.
I was scheduled to play in the
annual Katipunan Golf Classic that Saturday after she came home. I debated
whether or not to play, but my sister assured me that I should go and take a break. It was not that much fun, playing golf, all the while on the
verge of tears. Before I left, I whispered to my aunt that I would win a
trophy for her. I ended up winning two – one for low gross and one for longest
drive. Hubby won a trophy for closest to the pin, too. I brought these to my
aunt’s bedside that night, and I put each one into her hand, explaining what
they were for. Then I told her how much she’d meant to me, how her love and
nurturing had helped make me who I am today. The stroke had rendered her unable
to talk, but she spoke with a gaze of understanding in
her eyes, and by squeezing my hand.
The next day she lapsed into a
coma. After seven days, she passed from this world into heaven. It’s hard to
explain the special love I have for her. I called her “auntie” but she was
actually not related by blood. She’d been adopted by my mother’s family when
she was in her teens. She’d helped raise my mother and her siblings, and later
helped raise me and mine. Maybe that’s why my love for her feels purer than any
love I’ve ever known. What bonded us was not blood, but our souls. Blood is
thicker than water but soul is thicker than all.
