Still Free. And Classic Beauties
Your Subscription, My Mom, and My Aunt Joanne
May 19, 2023
Dear Reader,
A dear subscriber has asked me to make my Substack blog accessible for paid subscriptions. I’m new to the technology, and am setting it up today. YOUR subscription has been free and I want it to continue to be (unless you opt to change it.) If you subscribed before today, May 19, 2023, and find you are not able to access my posts free from here on, please let me know.
You may have noticed I’ve gone quiet here for a bit. It is such a unique season of life for me. In the last couple of months, I have been in the trenches with “the Bondy girls,” my amazing mother, Sue, and her beautiful sister, Joanne.
While you’re reading this, please click this link to hear a beloved piece of music by Maurice Ravel, “a princess out of the past.*” Pavane Pour Une Enfante Defunte
I moved to a northwest Detroit suburb in 2017 to care for my father in his final months with us, through his toughest days with Parkinson’s disease. I’ve gotten to stay on and spend priceless time with my mom since then. Time and mother/daughter experiences have allowed me to know and enjoy her deeply. I’m inexpressibly grateful for the friendship we have now. Being able to help care for her is nothing but a blessing. Sue is a delight, an inspiration, a magical human being, and I’m just lucky to have her as my mother.
Looking after Mom has been unexpectedly grounding for me personally. I’ve known all along that I’m wired for supporting and caring. So, during these past six years, I feel I’m living my purpose. I really love the work of seeking solutions to help keep Mom thriving as she deals with aging and health conditions. It seems I was made for the challenge of orchestrating all the pieces to provide nurturance to her, body and soul. Of course I want to help her stay with us as long as she can. It’s my job right now to provide the support needed for her to maintain vitality.
Central to Mom’s vitality is her practice of daily reading—a constant stream of books and usually several at once. And playing her piano—sight reading and trying out new pieces or revisiting old classical and pop favorites. Her friends and loved ones benefit from hearing her play and tell the stories she reads. Especially me.
In the past two years, a particular health challenge has been a nuisance. Nothing life-threatening, but absolutely life-dampening. The many doctor’s appointments, scans, tests and medication trials she’s “endured” have proved ineffective up to now. Finding an effective treatment these days involves sheer determination, because, as many of you know, healthcare workers are overwhelmed. So many of my phone inquiries went like this: “The doctor is not taking new patients,” and “She has an opening in six months.” Incredibly frustrating.
In the past three months, Mom’s situation became more problematic, which set me on a determined, arduous path to find a better treatment. It’s been really difficult seeing mom’s vitality threatened. My writing energy has been squeezed out of me.
In the midst of the increased frequency of these “intrusions,” mom’s sister, Joanne, took a final turn and, on April 24 at nearly 93 years old, with her boys around her, she passed on. In the six months before she died, Joanne had been hospitalized and then moved from her independent living apartment (down the long hallways from Mom’s place) into the skilled nursing wing where, gradually, she declined.
The blessing was having time to adjust mentally to Joanne’s departure. But the process has been sad for Mom, for Joanne’s sons, and yes, for me. Joanne and Mom have grown very close since 2015 when Mom and Dad moved into the same senior community as her. I have gotten close with her as well, driving “the Daisies” to doctor and dentist appointments, having lunches, dinners and visits together, and working with her kids to increase her level of care.
Visits with Joanne days before she passed were incredibly precious for all of us. The “vigil,” watching and waiting with a loved one as they decline, feels so sad, so heavy, so painful. It has aptly been described as “the valley of the shadow of death.” Indeed, it is dark and difficult. At points, you’re just holding your breath in anticipation of that dreaded phone call.
But the opportunity for priceless moments of love, honest communication and connection is ripe. You have the chance to communicate those final messages that urgency impels you to communicate.
Since I’m here with Mom and Joanne, I was able to seize that opportunity and share words of gratitude, of truth and love, of pure intimacy. To see Joanne’s heart so perfectly and vulnerably present in her eyes and smile, completely free from self-protectiveness and earthly distraction, bound me to her in a knowing I’d never experienced.
This unique, unsullied connection is possible right next to the veil between life and death. It is otherworldly. Perhaps you have experienced it with your loved ones.
Aunt Joanne didn’t much believe she was worth a memorial service. A funeral was definitely not “the family way” and yet, so many people loved her. Her life is certainly worth celebrating. Mom insisted we have a gathering (as did I,) and so I’m gathering the RSVPs from her small but loving band of friends and family.
We are still lingering a bit in the long shadows of death. Grief extends its bands of love around you, striking an ache in your heart when you remember you can’t see your loved one again. With those who have “had a long, full life” or are “no longer in pain” and all that, you still mourn their loss even as you are glad they are now free. I’m sure Mom and I will feel a sense of rest and peace after we gather to honor Joanne in the presence of her people, acknowledging and celebrating the beauty of her existence.
We love you and miss you, Aunt Joanne.
I wish you fresh eyes to see that Wonderworld is around you, in life and in death. Don’t miss it!
With lots of love,
Linda and Ruby
P.S. I’d love if you might leave a comment below. It lets me know I’m connecting with fellow humans. Thank you so much for taking a moment.
Sorry for your loss.
I love your words so much. They are very powerful, Linda.