Pudding Pops, General Hospital and Goodbye
When I was about five years old, I remember sitting in my Aunt Beulah's yard with my mom and sister on a perfect summer day, the kind when nothing else matters--not even the scariness of first grade in the fall--because summer vacation is eternal and the sun is shining and the grass feels slick and cool under your bare feet. Aunt Beulah was my grandpap's little sister, second-to-last in a brood of about a dozen kids. She lived in a trailer right beside my Aunt Amber, one of her oldest sisters. As a little girl, I loved both of them for so many reasons. Aunt Amber was a short little round woman with a short little house that didn't make me feel small and scared. Aunt Beulah was crazy and said things that grown-ups just weren't supposed to say. But the main reason I loved Aunt Amber and Aunt Beulah so much was because they always gave me food, regardless of whether or not mom said it was OK. The quickest way to my heart has always been through my stomach.
On that particular summer day more than 20 years ago, I remember sitting in the grass, watching my sister trying to do weird things like back-bends and walking on her hands. I was pretty content, but Aunt Beulah caught my attention when she asked mom if we could have some Pudding Pops. Pudding Pops! We were dirt poor at the time, and things like Pudding Pops didn't often find their way into our freezer. We were more of a generic lime-cherry-grape popsicle kind of family. My mouth started to water just thinking about it. I don't remember if I begged or not, but in typical Aunt Beulah style, she gave them to us. I remember the way it melted on my tongue, how the coolness of it trickled down my throat into my tummy. Sitting there in the grass between my two aging aunts with my wonderful Pudding Pop, I seriously thought that life could never be more perfect.
About a decade later, I began babysitting for a little boy who lived near my aunts. Every day after school, I'd take the bus to aunt Amber and Beulah's place and hang out with them until the little boy came home--usually about an hour after I got there. Aunt Beulah and I got into the habit of watching "General Hospital" together. She'd fill in all the gaps and history that I didn't know and we'd bullshit about the characters. She always had soda for me and all types of snacks. If I missed a day for some reason, she'd worry and call my mom. I whiled away countless hours in her glider rocker, watching the exploits of Jagger and Karen, Ned and whoever he was with, Scotty and Dominique. It was a ritual that I loved and missed once I had to stop babysitting the next year because of extracurriculars that kept me running ragged after school.
In the time that's passed, I've not spent nearly enough time with my aunts as I should have. Aunt Amber died in 2001, well into her 80s, and I didn't even get to the funeral. I've seen Aunt Beulah occasionally, visiting her with my mom or going to church dinners with she and my grandpap, but it's nothing like the time I put in with her when I was 15. For some reason, other things became more important or life got too busy. I've always been filled with reasons and excuses.
But tonight I've found out that those reasons and excuses were nothing but selfish and that all these years I should have spent more time with the wonderful woman who gave me Pudding Pops. Tonight I found out that she has stage four lung cancer that's spread to her brain and is steadily devouring other parts of her body as well. My "General Hospital" partner has about six months to live.
I usually don't blog about stuff like this, but I thought it might be cathartic. I just saw Aunt Beulah two weekends ago and it's so hard to believe that such a vibrant woman (though markedly more frail than I've seen her) will be totally missing from my life before I celebrate another birthday.
Most of the people I love who have died have gone suddenly. There was none of this 'six months to live' thing. My mom's mom was on her way to recovery one minute and gone the next; my dad's dad was certainly ill, but no one predicted that he would die as quickly as he did.
I didn't know what to do when mom told me. Aunt Beulah and I aren't close anymore, but she certainly holds a dear place in my heart. When I hung up the phone, I stood and looked out the window for a while, thinking about how all those people out there in the world doing their thing don't know that my aunt--the super cool woman who fed me Pudding Pops and ginger ale--was dying. I wanted to shout out the window, and tell them that this phenomenal person will just stop breathing, that her brain will stop functioning and she will disappear forever. And all that I will have left are memories of Pudding Pops on a hot summer day and afternoons spent bonding over a soap opera.
This is my window.
And this is me shouting.
On that particular summer day more than 20 years ago, I remember sitting in the grass, watching my sister trying to do weird things like back-bends and walking on her hands. I was pretty content, but Aunt Beulah caught my attention when she asked mom if we could have some Pudding Pops. Pudding Pops! We were dirt poor at the time, and things like Pudding Pops didn't often find their way into our freezer. We were more of a generic lime-cherry-grape popsicle kind of family. My mouth started to water just thinking about it. I don't remember if I begged or not, but in typical Aunt Beulah style, she gave them to us. I remember the way it melted on my tongue, how the coolness of it trickled down my throat into my tummy. Sitting there in the grass between my two aging aunts with my wonderful Pudding Pop, I seriously thought that life could never be more perfect.
About a decade later, I began babysitting for a little boy who lived near my aunts. Every day after school, I'd take the bus to aunt Amber and Beulah's place and hang out with them until the little boy came home--usually about an hour after I got there. Aunt Beulah and I got into the habit of watching "General Hospital" together. She'd fill in all the gaps and history that I didn't know and we'd bullshit about the characters. She always had soda for me and all types of snacks. If I missed a day for some reason, she'd worry and call my mom. I whiled away countless hours in her glider rocker, watching the exploits of Jagger and Karen, Ned and whoever he was with, Scotty and Dominique. It was a ritual that I loved and missed once I had to stop babysitting the next year because of extracurriculars that kept me running ragged after school.
In the time that's passed, I've not spent nearly enough time with my aunts as I should have. Aunt Amber died in 2001, well into her 80s, and I didn't even get to the funeral. I've seen Aunt Beulah occasionally, visiting her with my mom or going to church dinners with she and my grandpap, but it's nothing like the time I put in with her when I was 15. For some reason, other things became more important or life got too busy. I've always been filled with reasons and excuses.
But tonight I've found out that those reasons and excuses were nothing but selfish and that all these years I should have spent more time with the wonderful woman who gave me Pudding Pops. Tonight I found out that she has stage four lung cancer that's spread to her brain and is steadily devouring other parts of her body as well. My "General Hospital" partner has about six months to live.
I usually don't blog about stuff like this, but I thought it might be cathartic. I just saw Aunt Beulah two weekends ago and it's so hard to believe that such a vibrant woman (though markedly more frail than I've seen her) will be totally missing from my life before I celebrate another birthday.
Most of the people I love who have died have gone suddenly. There was none of this 'six months to live' thing. My mom's mom was on her way to recovery one minute and gone the next; my dad's dad was certainly ill, but no one predicted that he would die as quickly as he did.
I didn't know what to do when mom told me. Aunt Beulah and I aren't close anymore, but she certainly holds a dear place in my heart. When I hung up the phone, I stood and looked out the window for a while, thinking about how all those people out there in the world doing their thing don't know that my aunt--the super cool woman who fed me Pudding Pops and ginger ale--was dying. I wanted to shout out the window, and tell them that this phenomenal person will just stop breathing, that her brain will stop functioning and she will disappear forever. And all that I will have left are memories of Pudding Pops on a hot summer day and afternoons spent bonding over a soap opera.
This is my window.
And this is me shouting.