Silent Thoughts

A year ago, I had just moved into my new apartment. The thrill of a new space, a different life, was still floating through the air. It was a much-needed fresh start after working a terrible life-sucking job all summer. I was settling in and adding the finishing touches to make it really feel like home. Then I got a call that changed everything.

“Hi, is this Audrie? Sadly, we’re calling to inform you that your aunt passed away this morning.”

I hadn’t thought I would cry, but as I heard those words coming from the nurse on the other side of the phone, hot tears streamed down my cheeks. It wasn’t a surprise. I had known for months that my aunt had breast cancer and her health was quickly declining. Somehow though, that knowledge didn’t seem to help at all when she finally pass away. It hurt just as much as if a car accident had taken her suddenly, without warning. Nothing could have prepared me for that loss, not even the ones that had come before. It never gets easier realizing that you will never see or speak to some you love again. You will never again share a meal or laugh over a hilarious joke. You will never breath the same air or embrace in a hug.

For months I had watched, helpless, as her health declined and she began needing more and more care. Hospice started coming around once a week, then twice, and before I could process what was happening, they were coming every day. Her pain only got worse as the cancer spread. It was in her bones, making them brittle, ready to crack at the slightest bump. It was in her organs and probably in her brain, although we never knew for sure. Every day she suffered. Pills could put a damper on her pain, but they never did away with it completely. There was a point that came towards the end when I realized that no one could help her – not the doctors, hospice nurses, or me.

I regret to say that it had been years since my aunt and I spoke. We were separated by thousands of miles and neither she nor I had the money to travel often. When the cancer had spread and the doctors told us she had months – or maybe just weeks – to live, I was torn with guilt for having not spent more time with her. My stomach sank as I realized how much time I had wasted on things that weren't important. It really is true what they say: you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.

For weeks after her death, I lived in fear that I would forget her. I didn’t want my memories of her kind smile, much needed advice, and joyful laugh, to fade into a vague remembrance, hazy around the edges. I realized that when people we love die, the only real thing left of them are memories. So, as I sorted through her things, I kept what captured snapshots of her life, along with a striped shirt that I always remembered her wearing, and her bible, which still had a poem slipped in the front cover that I had written when I was only 11.

It has been a year now since she passed, and I still think of her often. There are so many things I wish I would have said, but never did. So I speak to her now when I have a quiet moment alone, telling her those once silent thoughts, keeping her with me always.

As always, thanks for reading!

Lindsey