Relay for Life, 2012 - In Memory of Aunt Karen

Last night was the annual Relay for Life in our school's fieldhouse. There were members of sororities, fraternities, sports teams, independents, faculty, and town residents walking, laughing, celebrating, donating, and crying. Speeches were made by several students who have battled with cancer or lost somebody to cancer, and there were performances by our a capella and dance groups. I have often had people on here ask about why I don't talk about my dad much, and the most information I ever give is that he has health problems. He explained to me during lunch one day, in one sentence, that cancer is at the root of his disease; but, the word "cancer" is never used around my house. In fact, that's the only time that word has ever been used in relation to him - in that one sentence, on that one day, just between me and him. The truth is, his condition is much more complicated than that. Because of that, when I think of cancer I think of someone else. During the luminaria ceremony last night I couldn't help but think of my Aunt Karen. When I was thirteen I had my Bat Mitzvah in February of 2005, and she was there in full spirit and laughter as she always was. She and her family went back to Canada where they lived, and I didn't see her again until October of that year.

I didn't see all of my family in Canada often after I started middle school. My dad and I often took the seven- to nine-hour up when I was younger, especially when we were moving my grandmother, Nana, and grandfather, Gramps, into nursing homes. I was pretty young when they passed away, but those trips with my dad were always marked by the smile and hug of Aunt Karen when we would finally arrive. I would always beg him to stay in her room at the hotel, and she would help talk him into it. Many of my memories with her consist of doing things that she undoubtedly wouldn't want to do but would for me, and somewhere along the way we'd be crying and could barely breathe from laughing. We went pedal boating in a lake, and she freaked out when we saw a snake in the water. We shattered the glass table on my porch when my ten-year-old mind thought it would be a good idea to try to chip all of the ice off. Whatever we did, we laughed, and when I had to tell my parents about the table she stood next to me like a child my own age as we both smiled guiltily. But, as I grew older and schedules got busier, we only saw my family up there for funerals or weddings. I treasured Thanksgiving, when Karen and her kids, who are all at least 15 years older than me, would come down to the United States; it was the one occasion I could count on to see them. I often forget that I have a big family on my Dad's side; the kind that stands by you because that's what family does. Karen made sure I remembered that.

In September of 2005 my Aunt Karen was diagnosed with colon cancer. I never knew the steps leading up to that, why she went to the doctor's, or anything else. I knew the diagnosis, and that she had to start heavy treatment immediately. Apparently it was in a very late stage, but I didn't understand at the time what that meant. Several weeks later my parents told me she was going to come down to the United States to get treatment at the hospital close to my house because it has a nationally ranked cancer center and overall better care than she was receiving. She had to make the trip quickly, because soon she wouldn't be strong enough to travel. She called me on Tuesday, October 11th from the car on the way to my dad's house. She told me that everything would be fine, and she would see me on Friday when my mom and I went up there, and not to worry because she was going to be okay. I now believe that she knew she wouldn't be okay - she had to have known that - but she wanted me to believe she would be okay. That Friday when I went to the hospital I was in shock. She was unbelievably thin, and her skin and eyes had a yellow hue because the cancer had spread to her liver. She could barely move, and my mother explained to me that she couldn't talk. She wasn't the always-smiling Aunt Karen I had always known. In her eyes I could see a person trapped in a decaying body. But even then I was too young to understand the situation. She passed away three days later, on October 17th, 2005.

I didn't cry until the very end of the funeral when they were loading the casket back into the hearse. I'm not sure I understood that she was gone; and as they took her away I kept a secret with me that I would share for quite some time. That Friday when I saw her for the last time, and doctors and my parents calmly explained to me that she couldn't speak and had trouble moving, she spoke to me. When the doctors and my parents left the room, she told me that she loved me, and to continue to always laugh.

Her absence was felt every day after she passed. My dad changed forever, and the grief consumed him. He lost his sister, and though he has two other siblings, they were the closest. He also lost the last connection to both of his deceased parents. The shared the logistics of moving them into nursing homes when they couldn't care for themselves anymore, the pain of his father reintroducing him to his own brother when the Alzheimers worsened, and the planning of funerals. There is a garden behind my house dedicated to her now, marked by the yellow rose bushes - her favorite flower. For months afterwards I would sit in my room doing homework and hear "Angel"by Sarah McLachlan playing downstairs as my dad watched the funeral procession over, and over again. Every time I hear that song I flashback to the image of her being taken away, and feel the arms of my cousin around me. I remember being the youngest one at her house afterwards as we celebrated her life, and how I sat on the floor lonely because I was still too young to feel part of everybody else. That's when it sank in that she wasn't there, because in those moments she always made me feel like it was cool to be the baby of the family, because that meant I got to hang out with her.

When I think of my high school and college years, and all of the landmarks, I wonder what it would have been like if she were there. I wonder how our relationship would have grown into a more mature friendship, too. She likely would have been the adult I turned to when I couldn't yet turn to my parents. I think about coming out, the college process, high school graduation, the death of my best friend's cousin, and now, finding the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. I wonder what she would say if I told her that the love of my life is a woman, and that I wanted her at our wedding. I would love to believe that she would be the same unfailingly supportive role model that she always was to me. Nights like last night make me feel guilty for not being more involved in organizations like Relay for Life. I wrote a few months ago about the "Kony 2012" uproar of activism, and how it made me realize simultaneously how many worthwhile causes there are in the world and how it is impossible for me to donate time, money, and support to all of them. I have dedicated myself primarily to the LGBTQ and animal protection causes,  as well as sexual assault/rape advocacy groups when I can. This semester, through the course I've taken, I've delved heavily into the recognition that we do not live in a post-racist America, as much as they teach that the civil rights battle gained full equality for all races. Maybe I need to be making room for one more cause. Statistics surrounding cancer are astounding, and in any space you will find someone whose life has been harmed by it. Aunt Karen passed away when I was too young to understand much of this, but had she passed away now I would undoubtedly immerse myself into this organization. Being a college student makes it hard to involve yourself in so many causes. I don't have $100 to put towards the four, including this one, causes that lie close to my heart. Maybe involving myself in this one doesn't have to include a personal financial expense. I love working out and running - maybe I could sign up for a run and my donation would come in the form of (hopefully) many of my family and friends supporting me. I miss you, Aunt Karen, and I'm sorry if it feels like I've forgotten what killed you seven years ago. I'm sorry if it feels like I haven't supported you the way that you supported me, but your memory hasn't faded at all, and I hope to make a change in your honor.

For anybody that is still reading, thank you. Even if your identity is hidden behind a tumblr URL, or an anonymous grey face, your support is felt.