My Aunt Sue

Well, it's time for another serious post.  Because, like always, it was time for something truly serious to happen in life.  Something that puts everything into perspective once more.

I had mentioned in my last post that I had gone away to Toronto for the weekend.  This is because my Aunt Sue passed away from cancer.  Here's the story.
My Aunt Sue had been with my Uncle Mike, my dad's brother, ever since I can remember.  In fact, this June was their 25th anniversary.  They were a couple completely in love with, and suited for, each other.  When I was a kid, I remember thinking my Aunt Sue was the coolest, most beautiful person I knew.  And she actually probably was.  She had a great sense of style - not to mention humour - and she kept me mesmerized with her long blond hair and constant smile.
Eleven years ago, Aunt Sue and Uncle Mike decided they wanted to have children.  They seemed to be having trouble, so my Aunt went to the doctor to get things checked out.  Thank goodness she did; they discovered she had ovarian cancer.  This type of cancer has an incredibly low survival rate, as there are typically no symptoms until it's too late (sleep tight tonight ladies).  Luckily because they caught it early on, Aunt Sue had a fighting chance.  And fight she did.
For the past eleven years my aunt bravely faced her disease, collecting all kinds of books about cancer and how to beat it, changing her diet, travelling different places to try different treatments.  When she had been cancer free for almost five years, her and my uncle planned a trip to Paris.  Right before they were set to leave, tragedy struck - the cancer was back.  It was back to chemotherapy and hospital visits rather than the Eiffel Tower.
But my aunt was not the typical caner patient; after being diagnosed with the deadly disease and painfully enduring various treatments, she decided she would like to play hockey.  Ice hockey.  So she signed up and became completely in love and involved in the sport.
She also fell completely in love and involved with her nieces and nephews - her sisters' children.  When she was first diagnosed, she had only one niece.  Over the next eleven years of her fight with cancer, her sisters had two more children each.  These five kids became the biggest focus of my aunt's life.  Had she not caught her cancer as soon as she did, she would not have been around to become such a HUGE part of their lives.
At the celebration of life for my Aunt Sue, I was struck by how everyone who spoke said the same incredibly positive things about my aunt.  She was such an amazing person, and she was exactly who she was - consistently from her three sisters, the home care nurse and other family and friends, the same things kept coming up: how brave she was, her sense of humour, her zest for life, her love of my uncle and her family, her adventurous spirit, her kindness to everyone, her fearlessness.  Sitting there listening to everyone speak, I felt like I needed to do more with my life; to be more.  To tackle anything that comes my way with courage and grace.  To live  life my Aunt Sue could no longer live.
A few stories stuck out to me from the people who spoke.  One of her sisters talked about all of the books my Aunt Sue had about cancer.  She spoke about how hard she fought.  Then she said she noticed the books my aunt read started to change; she noticed they went from cancer books to books about the meaning of life.  About the Buddhist belief on the afterlife.  She became peaceful; no less brave and determined, but it was almost as if she realized the fight was coming to and end.  Another sister spoke about how she had said she was going to miss her and my Aunt Sue simply replied "I'll be around".  Her younger sister talked about one of the last times she saw my aunt, in the hospital, and she was telling my aunt of a friend she had who's mother died and for five weeks after she passed, the chimes in her room would chime even without a breeze.  My aunt was quiet for a moment, then said, "I'll see what I can do" with her signature smile.
Although it was an incredibly moving and powerful ceremony for my aunt, I couldn't stop thinking about my uncle.  They were absolutely soulmates and he had spent the last eleven years of his life fighting cancer too.  Any time my aunt needed to be carried, he carried her.  Any time she needed a better room at the hospital or faster treatment, he fought for it.  This year my aunt needed to get a tissue sample down to the States in order to be considered for a trial treatment; there was a severe storm and her tissue sample wasn't going to make it in time.  So my uncle took it himself - driving for hours straight in the storm, down to the States without stopping.
My Aunt Sue's fight with cancer was my Uncle Mike's fight with cancer.  Because my Aunt Sue's life was my Uncle Mike's life.
They were so clearly connected in every way; I can only hope they still are.

My Aunt Sue's sister's husband read this poem.  It was very moving - and somehow comforting:

Gone From My Sight

I am standing upon the seashore.

A ship at my side spreads her white

sails to the morning breeze and starts

for the blue ocean. 

She is an object of beauty and strength. 

I stand and watch her until at length 

she hangs like a speck of white cloud 

just where the sea and sky come 

to mingle with each other.

Then, someone at my side says;

"There, she is gone!"

"Gone where?"

Gone from my sight. That is all. 

She is just as large in mast and hull 

and spar as she was when she left my side 

and she is just as able to bear her 

load of living freight to her destined port.

Her diminished size is in me, not in her.

And just at the moment when someone

at my side says, "There, she is gone!"

There are other eyes watching her coming,

and other voices ready to take up the glad

shout;

"Here she comes!"