My aunty had become terminally ill. The recently found melanoma had spread and was now rapidly taking over her body. I flew up to Queensland to see her with my family, not knowing then, it was to be the last time I would ever see her again.Bundaberg was hot.
I felt suffocated staying with my family after having had my own place for the better part of a month and was confronted by the circumstance for our cramped visit.
What do you talk about with someone who is about to die? Posing in family photos framed with the subtext of impending death. Everyone floundering beneath the gigantic elephant in the room as it casts its enormous shadow over everything you think, say and do. You bumble around in the darkness feeling like everything you do is wrong. Lost in its shadow you become forced to reflect on your own life and mortality, knowing that your day will one day come. As the minutes tick by, you become excruciatingly aware that you can’t get that second back and she’s one step closer to death.
I wondered what she was thinking in her final days. I selfishly pondered: did she ever really like me? Did she still love me? Did it even matter? Did she know when she looked into my eyes with her superpower stare, just how much I wished I could freely communicate my love for her, but because I’m an over sensitive emotional wreck who loses my voice anytime I’m faced with real love and truth, instead of expressing this love I sit in silence trying pathetically to send telepathic messages straight into her heart and brain.
Facing her in the darkened loungeroom I just sat dumb. I sat silent and stared. Contemplating how short life is. How suddenly cruel and unfair. I longed for something smart to share. I wanted to distract her. To gift her with a smile. I wished to make her laugh and prayed to take her pain. But all the while I still sat dumb. Instead of reaching out to properly connect, I just sat silent and stared.
To me, the most excruciating thing to witness is the effect a terminal illness has on the surrounding loved ones. The life partner is losing his love and best friend. The mother is losing her first born. The siblings; my mother and uncle, are losing their sister. My cousins are losing their mum. It’s brutal to behold and shames the thoughts I keep thinking about not being worthy enough. To witness a person who is losing the love of their life is a privilege, viciously bringing into focus what really matters in life. It makes your egoic yearnings become greatly insignificant. Their love distilled becomes potent and fleeting and feels too strong to bear.
I’m forever changed by the amount of love I saw in my uncle’s eyes as he nursed my aunt. His beautiful proud love made his eyes glitter, and shine bright for us all to bask in, illuminating our way through the shadow we were all lost in.
Two weeks later I was assisting a workshop showing student directors how to build rapport with actors. Together we broke down scenes from their final films in hopes of readying them for their impending shoots. I left the session just after midday, feeling elated and happy to help and encourage the young creatives. Glancing down to check the time on my phone, I saw I had a missed call from mum.
She’s gone, I thought.
I began to cry on the street as I walked to the tram stop calling mum back for confirmation. Choked with tears as I sat on the tram back to Brunswick, I listened as mum gave me our plans to fly back to Bundaberg for our final goodbye.
On the day of the service I chose to wear white. I couldn’t stand to shroud myself in black. My aunt loved fashion and had spent her life making textiles and clothing, always searching for interesting fabrics to create with. I dressed with care for her.
We arrived at a small church surrounded by big gum trees. As we parked the car, I was surprised by how many people were already there. Everyone was so well dressed, in floral dresses and suits. I saw at a distance my uncle and cousins in their crisp clean suits and felt my throat and stomach constrict. In a daze, I got out of the car and waded through the dispersed funeral guests. As I approached the mouth of the modest church, I began to hyperventilate. With knees buckling, I couldn’t cross the threshold. It felt like there was a forcefield rendering it impossible for me to step closer to my Aunt’s casket which lay at the front of the church. For strength, I looked to my uncle. I’ll never forget his face. Grief was etched so deeply, colouring his eyes black like endless pits. The force of his sorrow became too much to witness. To stop myself from completely collapsing I began to fight the weakness in my knees. I tried in vain to calm my nerves and to breathe steadily as I walked to the front pew to sit with my family.
When I finally made it to my seat I was taken aback by the beautiful crown of native flowers that dressed her coffin. She lay majestic, decorated with her favourite bush flowers, skillfully arranged by my uncle. I was flawed by their beauty and they became the strength I needed to get me through her service. In a dream I watched, listened and learned. Folk music played as old photographs illustrated the stage.
She was a true beauty. The 1960’s black and white photographs taken in her youth looked like beautiful scenes in Vogue. In her older years she happily camped, fished, explored, collected, mothered, grand-mothered and laughed. Then the photos from our recent visit came back to haunt me, magnified for all to see. Seeing the way we all desperately clung to her seemed to sober me from my grief.
Electrified I wanted to seize the day. Explore the world. Fall in love. Experience life. I wanted to bloom.
Flying back to Melbourne, I felt completely altered and changed as a person. She had brought me back to life. Watching the fluffy clouds from my seat as we sped by I ruminated,
Shine your eyes on the ones you love. Never apologise and never hide.
