Journal of a Living Lady #179

 

Nancy White Kelly

 

The death angel made a call on my family a few days ago. I knew Aunt Carmen Victoria was ebbing away. She had the same terminal illness that has had its grip on me: cancer. Yet, it took my breath away to get that call from Las Vegas.  I wasn't ready to let her go.

 

Carmen was a half-aunt. Her father was my paternal grandfather. When Carmen, an only child  of a second marriage was born, her mother had a severe mental breakdown  that kept her unstable. She later died in a nursing home, hardly aware that she ever had a daughter. Carmen grew up the hard way.  Her father, a military man, remarried and moved away. Carmen, at a young age, fended for herself amidst friends. Though my father and Carmen were several years apart in age and separated by distance, he managed to keep sporadic contact with her.

 

Eventually Carmen, my mysterious aunt, disappeared.  Carmen's only contact was an annual Christmas card to the family, signed simply "Carmen." She gave no return address. In 1982, she somehow learned that my father was dying with cancer. Carmen came for a visit accompanied by her Philippino husband. My father, though weak and withering, genuinely enjoyed their extended visit together. It was a highlight of an otherwise awful time.

 

After my father's death, my mother got the yearly Christmas card. Perhaps the infrequent family contact was because Carmen considered herself a black sheep. A paradoxical conclusion, since the family surname is White which Carmen kept.  Ironic, too, because the White family has always been an inclusive, loving, caring clan.

 

Carmen had a huge heart, but wasn't especially pretty. She was tall and heavy-set with bushy eyebrows. She couldn't read very well, having dropped out of school eons ago. Carmen was hardily the stereotype Las Vegas cocktail waitresses. From what I understand, she held her own quite well, making up for her lack of daintiness with a jolly, extroverted personality.

 

When an organization gave me a wonderful, living wake three years ago, I was sure to invite Carmen. To my delight, she came. Carmen and I made up for lost time. She stayed for an extra long visit. Buddy and I took her to visit her mother's grave outside Knoxville.

 

Soon afterwards, Carmen retired. Several weeks later her doctor gave the news that she had serious colon cancer. My sister and I begged her to come home to the South, to let family take care of her, but Carmen hesitantly chose to remain in familiar surroundings.

 

In spite of surgery, radiation, and grueling chemotherapy, the cancer spread. A bald head, oxygen and a rolling walker made her a glaring icon of cancer. Repeated blood transfusions eventually failed and her quality of life diminished greatly.

 

In spite of Carmen's obvious decline, the two of us chatted often and made jokes about our mutual illness. Unfortunately, church had never been a part of her life. I gave her a Bible and frequently sent notes giving spiritual encouragement. My own church sent Carmen a weekly prayer letter with many signatures and messages. She looked forward to receiving them.

 

I loved Carmen and deeply miss her. I hope she is in heaven. My family is shrinking. No grandparents. No parents. Now, no uncles or aunts. I still have three brothers and my one sister. We, the remaining generation, quietly wonder who will be next. While this Living Lady is the likely candidate, I refuse to concede. But I am a realist.

 

Life is like a train on a large circular track. Each time it passes the station, a person exits and a tiny baby gets on. I once was that baby. As I grew up and understood more, I packed my spiritual bags for the ultimate journey. Someday I plan to be a part of  grandest family reunion of all.

 

There is a rumbling on the tracks. The funeral train is just around the bend for someone.  Only God knows who among us is in the first car and  who is riding the caboose.

 

 

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nancyk@alltel.net

Journal of a Living Lady appears bi-weekly.