What death has taught me (Part 1)

My aunt died. And you get aunts and you get aunts. This one wore many more hats than simply 'aunty' and was a whole heap more in our lives than a normal first step away from a parent relationship.

 

We would talk politics and people and sex. While drinking whisky, wine or champagne.

We would laugh or cry at a movie that was “the latest thing” or an old classic.

We would drive around at ten pm in our pyjamas so that she could buy cigarettes and I could get chocolate. Or both. 

She would then swim in the same pyjamas with my kids in the morning.

Suicide hour in my house involved a lot of crazy noises and laughter when she was around. Which was often.

And when I needed that hour of relief to spare my children from being seriously punished, she would be there. Or when we needed a date night. Or when I wanted to have a run.

Flip it.

And then she died. Suddenly and unexpectedly. No one saw it coming. A fecking embolism took her within an hour.  “A silent killer” the doctors called it. And suddenly she was gone.

Let me just tell you for free – and for honesty’s sake – there were times we would argue and times she would irritate the life out of me. There were definitely times in my life when she was not the closest person to me at all.

But there were plenty of times that she was.

Anyway. She died.

Here’s some of what came out...

The people who I thought would definitely be there; at the funeral, at my side, on the phone… weren’t.

Some people made it all about themselves. I mean. Yes. My aunt died, but they wanted to be given a fair chance in the limelight, to grieve their way or to dance on the grave or to do whatever the flip they thought was more important than simply taking my hand, the hand of one of her children, her husband's hand and being there right now.

Some people chose this time to reveal a side to my aunt that I never knew. And I was so pleased for it. A guy I didn’t realise she knew that well showed me photographs of the time she let him take a spin in her million Rand car. Another time, someone came and told me a story of how my aunt paid her child’s school fees in full for a year, so that she didn’t have to worry about filing for a divorce from a husband who was beating her. Another person told me how, when my aunt heard that she and her new husband had only a bed and a fridge in their new home, took her shopping for a sofa, a microwave, and some other furniture and finishings and then promptly helped her decorate their new home.

Some people were “thinking of me” and just didn’t want to let me know by sending a message or anything, because they were sure I was overwhelmed. Well. No, I wasn’t really. I wished I had got those messages. 

Some people simply thought, that she was only my aunt and that’s okay. It’s not like a best friend or a parent. No, it wasn’t like that at all. And when I started crumbling in grief, they were shocked and couldn't understand it. 

What I learnt from her death is nominal in comparison to what I learnt from her in life. And that is often the case. But upon reflection, I've realised a few other startling truths. 

Rosy coloured glasses are real. CS Lewis spoke of how, when his wife passed away, those around him gushed over all her good points, but he wanted to remember her not-so-good as well, for that was all part and parcel of who she was. So many people suddenly gave my beloved aunt a sainthood. She would have hated that. Part of what she was infamous for was her cheeky/naughty/mischievous/irreverent streak. The stuff she said was cringeworthy at times and yet would fuel dinner party laughter after the fact for many years. Death taught me that people tend to ignore your faults when you're dead, sometimes to the detriment of your memory. 

Family is everything. My aunt adored her friends. To the point of obsession at times. And yet, they seemed to move on so quickly from her death. Some denied being as close to her as they were, when a newer friend came along who wasn't as fond of her. Some made moves on her husband a few weeks after her funeral. Some forgot quite quickly how good she had been to them, how kind she had been to them, the times she had saved their hind. But the family didn't. Although there were times when we weren't tight-knit, we still share anecdotes lovingly, shed a tear together and drink a toast. She was more a part of us than any other social group.    

It would have been nice to know that there was a concept of eternity in my aunt's life. I've realised that thinking about death before you die is important. I don't know whether she was a believer in heaven and hell, or karma and reincarnation. We had a few conversations about it, but my being a Christian often caused contention on the matter, so we didn't have many. Like most of us, I thought we had more time. And isn't that the case for so many people in our lives? We think we have time, but what death taught me is that we don't.


I called this post, "What death has taught me (Part 1)" because this was really the first death in my close family as an adult, one that was out-of-sync of the natural order, in a way. There will be more to follow, that is certain, and then I will learn some more from my grief and from the loss.

I've learnt that death, like life, is not always fair. There are people who probably should have died ahead of her, and when I say "should have," I mean, they were more likely candidates on paper: older, frailer, sicker. But yet, she was the one to go and God help me, that's a mental battle of note.

Grieving is so deeply personal and I've certainly learnt from this, that there is no right or wrong way to grieve. There are no fixed rules, no predicted paths to take, no definitive steps. It surprises as it keeps hurting, and then one day, the hurting stops and it becomes simply sadness, a weird empty feeling that is real yet manageable. For some people, it takes a little longer to get past the ache and for some the ache will ease sooner. But that's not a measure for how you loved, it's only a measure for how you feel.

When the big milestones loom: Christmas, her birthday, the hurting begs to return. It will be short-lived, but research tells us to heal from anything we need to really feel it, from start to finish. Death taught me a great deal, in lessons that weren't easy, but life has taught me that feeling anything, even sadness or hurt, is a privilege and one of the great joys of being truly alive. It's all too cliché to say that life is fleeting, but the real truth is, we always assume there will be more time. Death has certainly taught me that there is no more time.

I used to wish a light would flash above a person's head when it was the last time I would ever see them. I used to wish that we had a warning system and could have hard conversations before it was too late. Now, I simply wish I had the chance to share one more glass of champagne, one more drive with the music loud and the windows wide open, one more crazy, spontaneous act of sheer social defiance together. And that, I guess, is the biggest lesson of all: It's the little things that make up the best moments in life.