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New Year. New Loss.

Aunt Barbara died Thursday night.

She had a stroke shortly after midnight and was taken to St. Vincent Hospital in Bridgeport. Maureen and I were able to communicate with her, hold her hand, and make sure she knew she was loved and not alone.

As I have been talking to her friends, I am reminded that our lives seem to happen in chapters. Childhood. School. Professional career.  Retirement. Old age.  Fun.

Barbara had a myriad of chapters in her 85 years and some of those chapters overlapped. She went to an all-girls school for elementary after her dad died when she was only nine years old. There were five girls in her friend group and now, only Mary is left. Imagine that, friendships since third grade that last well into your eighties.

Then there are those people she traveled with – Judy especially shows up in photos all over the world. The two of them hit dozens of countries when school was not in session – they were both teachers. Together they rode camels in Egypt, visited the graves in Normandy, and watched the Passion Play in Oberammergau.

Another chapter is her participation in the Philadelphia Ski Club – a membership that included a fee she was adamant I keep paying even after she moved to Connecticut. She hadn’t skied in years, but those friendships endured.

Then there is the chapter we’ll call Irish Dancing. We have photos of her dancing her way down Broad Street in the Philly parades, smiling and having a wonderful time. In the end, she was on a walker, but at her best, she was dancing down the green-painted streets of her beloved city of brotherly love.

Every month for years, she had lunch with other ladies who graduated with her in 1957 from Little Flower. Every month they got together to, as she put it, “eat salad and talk about others.”

Her friend groups could fill a book. Rosemary called and sent cards nearly every month and that friendship goes back 60 years. Barbara was in her wedding, hosted the shower when Rosemary had a baby, and traveled together to Ireland at least once in the sixties. When Barbara made a friend, she did so for life.

Later chapters included her time at the Jersey Shore and her beloved Baby Condo – a little one bedroom place on the beach that she adored. There are photos of the many parties she hosted for those who played cards and wanted to visit the casinos. I don’t know how everyone fit into that place, bought on the advice of her brother, my dad, shortly after she retired from teaching, but speaking to her friends over the weekend, those parties are now part of the Brigantine lore.

After Barbara moved to her retirement home, friends continued to call and write. She hated talking on the phone without a cigarette in her hand, so she ignored the calls. Sometimes, if someone was with her, we would answer and she would speak for a bit – but not if someone was visiting. The person in front of her was always more important.

I could write about one whole chapter and call it “sweets” given Barbara’s penchant for chocolate. She could devour a donut like nobody else and we still laugh about her telling my sister that she likes cream donuts better than jelly – never complaining when I brought her a jelly donut every few days for a year.

The chapters revealed themselves in the countless photo albums we’ve been through, the piles and piles of pictures, and the many letters that never ever got thrown away. Every postcard she sent her mom, every card and letter she and my dad sent their parents. Every letter sent by my mom or dad updating Barbara and her mom, who lived with her until her death in 1987, about the family and school and broken bones – all of it captured on yellow legal paper or typed out when my mom discovered the electric typewriter. Barbara came by it naturally, as her mother saved every letter written to her by my grandfather, dating back to the 1920s. It will be nice when we’ve scanned everything and the family can take time to read through the correspondence.

We will gather later in January to bury Barbara and celebrate her faith and entrance into Paradise, where I imagine my father awaits, her long time companion, Bill, has been saving the seat beside him, and some angel with crooked wings stands to the side with a cigarette and matches from some casino, ready to welcome her home.

Rest in peace, Aunt Barbara. Your story is complete.

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Giving Thanks in a Small World

I went to a funeral last week in Philadelphia. Sr. Mary had battled cancer for 18 years – throughout the entire time I knew her. We met while studying for our doctorate at La Salle and of all the people I met, she was the one who had been the most compassionate, the most supportive, the most kind, and the most generous with her time and words.

She was a friend you could email or text and, even though she was carrying an immense burden herself, her words would lift your spirits, quicken your step, and make you smile.

When Aunt Barbara lived in Philly, she happened to meet Mary one night in the parking lot of the university. They shared Little Flower in common, Mary having taught there and Barbara having attended high school there. Soon, they were singing the school song. That happened every year I was there and when I defended my dissertation, Mary had a party for us and Barbara attended. Turns out Mary had a cousin who was Barbara’s pastor, so Barbara wrote letters to Mary, sent some money to her religious order, and kept in touch until she moved to Connecticut. To this day, Barbara asks about Mary and the priest-cousin-pastor.

It was no wonder Mary’s funeral was packed. Students she had taught, cousins from far and wide, women religious in her Franciscan community – all gathered to send her off, plead for the angels to bring her to paradise, and to celebrate her faith.

After we left Mary at her grave, we made our way back to the cafeteria for the luncheon. A young priest sat with us and we started chatting. Soon another cousin of Mary’s sat down and I heard her mention the parish of Christ the King, so I leaned over and asked, “Which Christ the King?” (Given our feast day yesterday, it seems a odd phrasing of the question.)

“In Haddonfield (NJ), do you know it?”

“I was baptized there and my godparents were active there for years – and my godmother still is.”

“Who?”

I tell her the name and she nearly comes over the table.

“I KNOW HER….. she’s my mother’s BEST FRIEND.”

Naturally, I went in search of the mom and made the connection. Turns out the mom is Mary’s first cousin and the “new” best friend of my godmother.

When I explained why she was the “new” best friend – the previous one having been my mother who died in December 2021 – the mom couldn’t believe it.

We chatted briefly about family, Mary, my connection to the lot, and mostly about my godmother, with whom she meets with every month for a prayer group from the parish.

What a small world.

One connection led to another and I spent nearly an hour catching up the following day with said godmother. It was like talking to my own mother when she was less forgetful, less ill, and less aged by the years and maladies she bore. In short, it was like going home to place I had forgotten I missed so much.

So Mary continues to take care of me. She continues to shower me with blessings even if her earthly battle is over. What a gift.

We will need these connections in the coming weeks as Aunt Barbara begins the next chapter, having had her own cancer diagnoses confirmed last week. We will need the support of those we love. We will need reminders of conversations and photos and stories from a happier time, and we will need the intercession of Sr. Mary, my new patron of chance encounters.

Rest in peace, my friend. As we sit at the table this week, surrounded by those we love, know that I will give thanks for your life, your presence, and your selfless example of joy.

Happy Thanksgiving.

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Dancing in the Kitchen

Yesterday was Mothers’ Day so in my house, it means generally leaving mom alone. Let her rest, watch whatever she wants. Or, as I joked with my siblings, we leave her alone so she can catch up on laundry.

I know. I am hilarious.

My children took it to the extreme and hardly even mentioned Mothers’ Day. Still, we had a nice time visiting Aunt B in her rehab unit/assisted living, watching television, and generally doing nothing. Dinner of steak and chicken, brussel sprouts and cauliflower, along with twice baked potatoes wrapped up the day.

While doing dishes, Ace Number One and I started listening to music. First Carbon Leaf, then John Denver, then Dave Matthews. As we danced around the kitchen, it occurred to me that it has been a while since that happened. Between work and the loss of my mom in December, the treadmill we are on with Aunt B, and four teenagers, the dancing seems to have waned.

It was good to spend time outdoors, planting new flowers with my youngest. It was good to sit and watch the same episode we’ve seen a hundred times of the crime show the second oldest one likes. And it was good to hear from child number three about his art project, chosen to represent the school system in the local art show.

But as I went to bed last night, it was the dancing that made my heart sing. There is just something about blissfully moving around with the music and the freedom of dancing with such abandonment with the people you love the most.

This week, I will intentionally find those opportunities to dance some more, no matter what the roller coaster of life brings our way.

pjd

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Aunt B

The tomb is empty. Alleluia.

In the last two week or so, I have memorized the locations of every pot hole from Fairfield to Philadelphia.

When my dad died, he asked me to look after his sister. I have taken that invitation seriously since 2011. When we were in Delaware, we visited often, vacationed with her, and enjoyed many birthdays and special occasions with her. Since we moved in 2016, Aunt B has been with us for holidays and special feasts, not to mention the first stop on any trip south.

She fell Tuesday of Holy Week after being released “too soon,” she says by a doctor who “wasn’t paying attention.” She is nothing if not opinionated. At nearly 83, she has earned that right.

So I came down to Philly. Then again on Wednesday of Holy Week, so I came back. This time, she landed in the hospital and then rehab. I’ve made the trip five or six times and yesterday decided to stay for a day or two. While home last week, Maureen and I visited and spoke with about a half dozen facilities and last night, using the posters my kids made, Aunt B chose one near our house. Today and the next few days will involve trying to get the paperwork filled out, a few things packed, and then moving the patient north.

It’s all very overwhelming for her. We do not like to see the ones we love suffer. Aunt B has been a grandmother to my own children and a confidant to me for quite some time. She is a retired school teacher, lifelong skier, Irish step dancer, and a fighter. She is fiercely independent, so when the doctor told her she can no longer live on her own, it was a punch in the gut. My prayer these last weeks is to implore my dad to help me avoid doing a big thing badly. It is just so hard to make a decision for someone else, especially someone so independent.

Please pray for us this week as we upend our lives to bring her closer and for her as she leaves the only home she’s known for decades. As many of you know, caring for those in their wisdom years can be taxing, even exhausting.

But the tomb is empty, and there is hope all around us. May we find our strength in that simple statement. The tomb is empty.

Alleluia.