My mother’s only sister, my aunt Yvonne, died in May of 2006. She slipped away quietly after perhaps a stroke or some other such quick means of escape. She will be laid to rest without much fanfare, no real funeral, perhaps a graveside service, then the small gathering of family will go home.
My aunt was not an aunt in the typical sense. She did not do auntly things like dote on us kids, nor did she keep us on weekends or during the summer like some aunts do, nor did she read to us. She never learned to read. She never really learned to talk, or should I say, never learned to form words in her mouth that most people could understand. We in our little family could understand her, for awhile we could anyway. She was, after all, our Yvonne.
When I was really little, Yvonne climbed China Berry and Mimosa trees with my sister and me out beside my granny’s house, us in our little shorts sets my granny made for us, she in her pretty dresses her mom made for her. I remember her always wearing loafers, now realizing they were easier to dress her in because she probably could never learn to tie her shoes.
When I was about 8 or 9 I remember my grandpa pulling out the old 8 millimeter projector and setting it up in their livingroom (I still have dreams of that old house, even dreaming last night that I was there in the midst of the beautiful furniture, the dark lavender evenings made mysterious by the sheer embroidered curtains) and we would watch these old home movies of us hamming it up for the camera. I remember looking over at Yvonne as she would laugh, knowing that she was laughing because we were laughing and probably not because the films were funny. My dad caught me looking one time as I laughed a little harder, so that she could enjoy the moment a little more herself. I remember him smiling at me because he knew I just wanted her to be happy.
It seemed she was always there as I grew up, but my grandparents had to keep her in a state home periodically because she was just so difficult to manage. Most young women can take care of themselves and, watching them struggle with her tantrums, her eating habits, her monthly cycle, I knew they had done the very best they could, perhaps even better than anyone else could, because they loved her so much.
I remember going to those homes a few times during the 60s and 70s, remember the fear and bewilderment I felt as I watched this enormous room full of women just like my aunt. Some would cry and scream, others would pull at themselves or reach out for us, and others would just curl up in a little ball on the concrete floors. These were horrendous places to be, or at least I thought they were back then. I know my grandparents took her out of these homes and brought her back in order to give her some quality of life, some sense of family and love.
As they grew older and their strength waned, they had to send her away more often. I knew my grandpa hated that. I think he always worried about her. At some point the state severely cut funding that allowed families to keep their children in these places, sometimes using the argument that it was better for everyone that these places didn’t exist. Well, maybe that is so, but I watched my grandparents, and now my mom, grow old taking care of those in their families who came into this world with a little different set of traits than most of us did. What happened was that these mass housing situations were turned into duplex-dwelling group homes staffed by people who were paid by the state to watch over these adult children. Some can be good situations, others can be a poor substitute for what they received at their real homes, the places where their families lived.
But Yvonne and her family were lucky and always seemed to find a good spot to land over these last several years. Her final house was close to my grandparents and they were able to see her up until the time my grandpa got very sick. After that, my mom took over the care of Yvonne, seeing to it that everything was taken care of. Mom had always been very close to the situation, had always made sure that all the papers were in order, had always been there so that Yvonne would know that she was loved.
Before Yvonne left this earth, I visited her with my mom and she was able to sing “Happy Birthday” in a sort of way that we could understand. It was quite an incredible thing for a woman who had never really learned any sort of speech or song pattern in her life. After that, my mom tucked her into bed. It was a very special moment for me. My mom loved her very much.
Yvonne’s health deteriorated sharply after my grandfather’s death in ’04. I don’t know if she was aware he had died or if she had just gotten to be old herself, actually living far beyond what most people of that disposition do. For a couple of weeks she had been having seizures and was moved to a nursing home. My mom called me last Saturday to tell me she had died that morning. It was okay. Yvonne was finally free of that body, that mind, of this world that doesn’t understand people who are so different. I know she is with my grandpa now and that all his questions have been answered.
If it weren’t for Yvonne, I wouldn’t be the person I am today. I am far kinder and more compassionate than I am given credit for because I knew her so well at such a young age. I wouldn’t trade all the aunts in the world for her. I feel that we all choose our parents, our situations in life, our blueprints for how we are to learn what we need for the next levels. I feel she chose to be in that body and in this life for reasons known only to her soul. I know she has catapulted herself into a realm that few of us will ever see, and I thank God every day in my silent moments that I had her in my life. I too loved her very, very much.
