My Aunt Wanda
By: Kaitlyn Dinner
A true, short story about my Aunt Wanda, her life and her death. Entering my piece on Death for the Medium Writers Challenge.
Watching her take her last breath right now in the living world is surreal. Her eyes were closed only mere seconds ago. Yet, with some strange surge of energetic electricity, her eyes became wide, her head found the strength to lift off the soft mountain of pillows, and she looked each one of us in the eye before gently falling back down. I am frozen in time and everything is so still. Understandably so; she is my aunt. She was my aunt. My Ciocia Wanda who just died in front of me.
Leiomyosarcoma, a very rare uterine cancer, has taken her life. Her breathing was forced and pumped by machines that manipulated everything for her just moments ago. Her lips were curled up in a way as if she was playing one last smart joke on us. Making one more statement and mark in this living world as she so loved to do. Just like last week’s bold statement when she made sure to be at her own wake. Yes, you heard that correctly: she attended her own wake. Wanda was that stubborn of a person that she wanted to be there at her own party so we didn’t have too much fun without her. The memory is so clear; I feel like I can see her. She’s dancing in her wheelchair, being pushed and twirled around by friends and family. A long conga line appears out of nowhere with the force of a thousand people. So much love was circulating that tiny Polish hall basement. You could barely breathe in that low ceilinged party room. It was full of sweaty heat and was adorned with dusty, old and divine décor from the 1980s that left a gentle haze strong enough to fill your lungs. But I sit here thinking of how it’s nothing compared to her strenuous last breath I just watched her take.
It’s March 16, 2009 and I’m leaving Ryerson University early today. We got our class cut short and the weather outside has been noticeably less dreadful than previous weeks. The smell of Spring is approaching and a walk sounds pleasant on this cool, crisp evening. I knew my mom would be with my Aunt at Princess Margaret Hospital in downtown Toronto, so I grabbed my phone and gave my mom a call. “We’ll be here all night, come visit,” she said. I stuffed my phone back in my coat pocket, slipped on my gloves and was off on my quick and easy 13-minute stroll. I arrived at the hospital and was greeted by my mom, Barb and Bonnie. “The Aunts,” we call them. My Aunt’s closest friends, so close that they were like family to me as well. I was surrounded by my favourite women and above all that, my Aunt was with her crew.
One breath in, goes the machine. One breath out. A melody I don’t enjoy, but I’m with comfort, and that makes this whole thing bearable. She’s exhaled her last breath and she goes so still. The machines weren’t going off though. Not like in the movies, anyway. No screaming doctors, no hectic code blue’s. She found peace and there’s no need to panic. She is okay now, we can all feel the weight lift off our shoulders. Our breath stood still too, in a way. We all took our last breath together as a whole group in that room. The nurse came in and she gave us that empathetic nod that said so much yet so little. We all gave my Aunt one more hug and kiss. We needed to do something for her at this moment, something we knew she would appreciate. So my mom pulls out some mini bottles of alcohol. You know, the ones you get on planes at an exorbitant price. Where she got them, I do not know, but we are pretty damn glad to have these right now. We all take a sip of stale, warm vodka and put some on her lips, one more for her, too. She would have loved that last taste of Polish vodka.
My Aunt was by no means an alcoholic, but something about that smell of vodka ignites a memory in me. This smell brings me back to a time when I was somewhere between 7 to 9-years-old. She wasn’t even drinking, so I can’t explain how this scent and story tie in as one, but they do right now. “Kids, come ON. You’re going to your Ciocia Wanda’s for the day. It’s just a few hours!” Oh, my Polish Ciocia Wanda. My mom was sending us off to her house for the day while she had to run around town for some errands. It’s not that we did not love our Aunt. We did. But, how can I put this nicely? She could be a bit of an asshole, I suppose. I mean that with utmost respect; I think she’d laugh if she heard that and would more than agree with me. She did what she wanted, she lived life with conviction, and she would absolutely put you in your place if she wanted to. She had her empathy and remorse and all, but her lack of giving a fuck what people thought of her or her beliefs is something I wish I embodied myself at times.
We got to my Aunt’s place and her big husky tried breaking through the screen door to say hello to my two older brothers and I (… or, two older brothers and me? If she were reading this right now, there would be over 100 red marks and scribbles riddled throughout these words. She was dead serious about her grammar). Anyway, we get inside the home and we hang out on her dated furniture, peppered with holes and crumbs and the like. “Who wants pizza?” she asks us, her cigarette pinched between her fingertips, the ash disintegrating onto the floor. Of course, us three young kids shot out of our seats as if you asked if we would go to Disney World, our arms raised high and our hunger for pizza even higher. Her eyes engaged with ours, she pulls another drag and heads into the kitchen. We bang our hands on her piano, we rub the belly of the buddha statue she must have picked up at a community garage sale one day, and we roll around on the floor with her husky. “READY!” she calls. My two older brothers barge right past me and, once again, they win the race to the feeding finish line. We all grab our plates, and as my siblings look awkwardly at one another, we all take a seat with hesitation. I guess, for a split second, we thought the pizza would be different this time. It was not. It never was. Like last time and the time before that, it is a slice of white Wonder Bread, slathered in sticky ketchup and cheese, all congealed together by a quick blitz of the microwave. I did not appreciate it at all at that moment, and I really wish I did. I feel a pang of guilt in my gut sting through me as I reminisce this memory beside her in the hospital room. I would do anything to share that haggard pizza with her one last time.
My Aunt Wanda was a fierce woman. She had her issues, but we all do, right? She was strong, she had lived and she had a plethora of stories. As we stand here in her hospital room with my mom and The Aunts, and with the bits of vodka warming us up and loosening our lips, we begin to share our favourite stories of her. We’re laughing, we’re crying, we’re living and we are in our most human form. I even tell the story of a few weeks back. I went to visit my Aunt at her apartment when she was high as a kite off her oxycodone medication. She told me of the time she took LSD as a young adult, tripped out at the bank and had strange conversations with the teller. She asked me if I ever really saw or knew what strawberry fields looked like and I said I had not. Laughing at me, she told me how that day she did, and for a moment, I wish I could see her memory through my own eyes to fully engage in that moment with her. Her experiences were most certainly some tales to be shared.
As we all hold hands and share hugs, I am reminded of how precious life is. How with one breath in, we are here, and the next breath out, we are gone. Death is inevitable and it can be fearful if we let the unknown consume us. I don’t think Ciocia Wanda felt that fear. I think deep down she knew she lived her life as fearlessly as possible and without giving any fucks about what people thought about her. The kind of confidence I hope to model someday. Seeing her, lying here motionless, I find comfort in being next to her. I’m clinging to this moment as it helps me with my grief. I walk to the car with my mom and we have our silence before setting off back home to Etobicoke. We are here and we will make our lives matter and share memories of those we have lost. And now, with arrangements and logistics, we must ensure we don’t have as much fun at her second wake without her. Because we know deep down, she will haunt us if we do. We won’t, Ciocia Wanda, don’t fret. Our parties won’t be the same without you.
