Matters of Golf and Death

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.