With heavy heart I disclose that Aunt Mitzi has died. She and her connection to the timeless form of the “story” had been chronicled here (and here) before. Finally, exactly one month after her 90th birthday, her tortuous unraveling into the vacuum of dementia has finished. It was endlessly sad and brings to a close for me a life event that was equal parts self-revealing, poignant, instructive and all of it, completely unexpected.
I reveled in the unique and sometimes envied pleasure of going from middle-aged bachelor to grandfather in the span of nine months. As such “caregiver” was only in light rotation on my personal playlist of human competencies. Five years ago I leapt from one coast to another to evolve into newfound roles of desert dweller and (Gulp!) grandpa. It was then Mitzi and I were serendipitously thrust into one another’s lives as something more than merely retired aunt and middle-aged nephew.
As a well-adjusted, vibrant and independent widow well into her mid-80s, Mitzi remained the same unique, crusty lady I recalled from the earliest years of life. Related by marriage and childless, she and my uncle Joe would make their annual Memorial Day journey south from the great metropolis of Detroit to my smoky little mill-town by the Ohio. My sis and I greatly anticipated their arrival and gifts were always included—a full plastic cowl to look like Batman (Adam West would be envious no doubt), Detroit Lions gear, maybe a baseball glove. These were city folk; fully original, world-travelled, well-dressed and endlessly elegant to the eyes of a pre-pubescent baby boomer.
Like all great authentic stories Mitzi’s had a compelling beginning, middle and end. First, as the youngest of four girls—orphaned by twelve during the Great Depression in the mining Southwest. Then, as a young woman in the Detroit war effort—simultaneously playing the role of Rosie the Riveter (and as the picture here attests), offering plenty to catch my uncle’s eye. Last, as part of an early-retired Arizona couple who enjoyed the fruits of their long labor. It’s at the “end of the end” where I became a small, relevant sub-chapter to her story.
Mitzi’s slip into dementia was first gradual but rapidly gained speed. As a concerned relative I tried to aid her with the big decisions about health, living arrangements, finance and the like while she was reasonably lucid. This was the same role my dear, aging mother had been playing for several years. But her needs rapidly escalated.
Soon (with my mother’s guidance) I was her caregiver, medical decision maker, power of attorney, fashion advisor, logistics guru, personal advocate and last family link that she saw on a regular basis. Our shotgun-marriage of circumstance brought unprecedented, memorable and fully authentic interactions: My assurance that her slippers did not need batteries; she asking my bride how life was with her “real” (previous) husband; “adopting” her great-great niece and nephew; endless medical visits; selling her home and beloved possessions and enough consumption of spaghetti with my homemade meatballs as to suggest that someday soon St. Peter will envy her dining recollections.
Now the scourge of her dementia has prevailed and brought her much needed rest and a hopeful reunion with her husband of 56 years. Her heavenly tale-telling is upon us. The vibrancy of a life well-lived and her authentic story is cast to memory for us mortals. All the good stuff is left only to the saints and spirits for their eternal enjoyment. The heavens and stars are older than life itself—and the authentic story only slightly younger. One deliciously wonders how Mitzi will mesh the two with her divine rap?
Go in peace Aunt Mitzi. Go in comfort. Go in knowing that your authenticity was always appreciated and encouraged the same in others … and we are the better for it.
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John Durante is senior marketing associate for WordWrite Communications.
