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Today is my aunt's birthday. She's 87. Not that she's aware of this. She has Alzheimer's disease, living in her own private world in a nursing home in Upstate New York.
I have written about her before, how we used to be close, how we'd talk for hours about nothing, how she was always just up the road when I was growing up. But when I see her now, I have the same status as the nurses who tend to her daily. Just another person coming
through the door.
I sent her a birthday card, although I know she won't know what it is or whom it's from or why
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it's on her nightstand. It doesn't matter. In some small way, sending it makes me feel as if she's still here, if not in mind at least in spirit. I always sent her a birthday card and saw no reason to stop when Alzheimer's set in years ago. She is still my aunt, whether she knows it or not.
Maybe it's about not wanting to let go. My friend Teddy died almost 10 years ago, and I still have her phone numbers work and home in my Rolodex. (Yes, I still have my phone numbers in a Rolodex.) I've never been able to throw her card away and whenever I'm thumbing through, looking for someone's number, her name catches my eye and a flood of memories come pouring back.
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She is not alone. Going through some old e-mails the other day, I came across one from SybrinaBBW@aol.com, an e-mail address that always made me smile whenever I
saw it in the morning lineup. It was from another old friend, Vicki, who died suddenly last
August. Her last missive to me.
"you back yet??? sorry i missed talking to you before you left ... i miss you ... i actually had a coffee date the other nite with a man named william faulkner ... who looked rather like you! he is a GOLFER ... but about as normal and seemingly sane as i've managed to meet in awhile ....
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traveled all over the world ... turning 51 in july ... yikes ... i haven't
even dated in the 40s let alone 50s .... but ... maybe that's been my problem all along. let's talk! big hugs"
Although we got strict orders to clean all old e-mails out of our office computers a new system was being installed over the weekend I couldn't hit the delete key on hers. It remains in my file, and probably will until the day I quit working here.
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This they're-not-gone-yet habit runs in the family.
My mom kept my dad's voice on her answering machine for more than a year after he died. She said that when she felt lonely for him and was in town on errands, she'd call home just to hear his voice.
I admit it was oddly reassuring to hear him talk whenever I called home, though it was a bit misleading to those who didn't know he was gone. He concluded with the phrase, "Leave a message, and we'll surely get back to you." To be honest, it made me chuckle.
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There is a certain comfort to be found in all these things the birthday card, the tattered Rolodex card of disconnected phone numbers, the e-mail with one last greeting, a voice from the past.
Years ago, a family friend died. His widow cleaned out his office, his closet and his garage the day he was buried. Not so much as a library card was left behind. I never thought the same of her again.
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