disability - Surviving and Thriving

Aunt Bea died this morning. Chemotherapy had tamed the stomach cancer for the past year, to the point where she was getting around with a walker and even eating a little bit again.

But a few days ago she was suddenly unable to rise from a chair. She started sleeping almost all the time. When my cousin e-mailed this on Friday, I knew I probably wouldn’t see my aunt again on this Earth.

On Saturday, my cousin put the phone up to Bea’s ear so that I could talk to her. All I could say was that I was thinking about her and praying for her, that I loved her, and that I thanked her for everything she’s done for the family. I heard her struggling to reply, but ultimately she couldn’t.

After hanging up, I spent the day struggling with memories of my mother’s death, back in August 2003. Losing Bea is like losing Mom all over again.

My Ani DiFranco T-shirts are fraying. Not before time, you understand: They’re from a 1997 concert in Anchorage, Alaska, which I reviewed. Originally they belonged to my daughter, who went to the concert with me.

The gray tee features a DiFranco verse:

“So I’ll walk the plank and I’ll jump with a smile/If I’m gonna go down I’m gonna do it with style/And you won’t see me surrender, you won’t hear me confess/’Cuz you’ve left me with nothing – but I’ve worked with less.”

The other shirt, a kind of an old rose/mauve color, bears a single lyric:

“Every tool is a weapon if you hold it right.”

Neither of us could have known that would be the last summer of Abby’s first life. Seven months after that concert she was on life support in the UW Medical Center’s intensive care unit. Guillain-Barre syndrome paralyzed her right up to her eyeballs and nearly killed her. She’d recover function but would never be the same.

Like losing my mom all over again.

You can’t even tell perfect bodies apart.