There Will Be No High Fives Today

When death casts a pall over everything else

Today is Friday, but I’m not in a high five-giving mood.

My aunt died of a heart attack Wednesday. The doctor called it a widowmaker, I guess due to its lethality, but from that I also infer it doesn’t usually happen to women. It was unexpected and shocking.

I’ve been in a daze since.

Growing up, my aunt was my second mom. We spent a lot of time with her and my cousin and they are prominent in many of my favorite memories. When I was in high school, my mom moved us four hours north to a literal one-light town. Every summer, my aunt and cousin came to stay for a long weekend. It was the highlight of the summer.

My aunt eventually migrated north and moved into the house next to my parents. Every time I went home, it felt like a mini family reunion.

She was a hairdresser until her hands couldn’t do it any more. She probably cut my hair for the first 15 years of my life, right up until we moved, and sometimes even after. She was light and life, and had an amazing laugh. She was feisty and unapologetic.

One summer 10 or 15 years ago, she sat by the bonfire, warning my young wife about how badly men’s balls start drooping when they get old. I have no idea how that conversation got started but was not at all surprised where it ended. “I'm serious,” she said, laughing, “down to their knees!”

My aunt was one of my favorite people in the entire world.

She developed health issues later in life and started becoming withdrawn. One year my mom told us she wouldn’t be coming over for the annual summer barbecue. She didn’t want to see anybody.

“Even us?” I was shocked. We weren’t just anybody. She couldn’t possibly mean us.

“She wants you to know it has nothing to do with you.”

I saw less and less of my aunt, until not seeing her became the norm. And now she’s gone.

I’m devastated for my cousin, and my uncle, and my mom. I’m sad for the time that was lost, and that I’ll never again see her get up and dance for no reason other than to dance. She’s been gone from my life for a long time and I feel guilty about it. Like I should’ve forced my way in or something.

It’s stupid, I know.

My grandma died just as Covid was kicking off here in the States. Her memorial was put off again and again, and then eventually quietly swept under a rug. Even 4 years later, it still isn’t real for me. My aunt didn’t want a service, so I wonder if that’s how it will be for her, too.

Caught up in grief-guilt, I was more or less catatonic all day yesterday. I “worked” in that I sat at my desk and sometimes even moved my mouse. I might’ve responded to a few emails. Anything beyond that required more than I could give.

In the evening, my wife suggested a movie. Maybe something light.

Yes. Distraction is good.

It wasn’t the first time we’d turned to movies in times of great pain.

We lost our first child to miscarriage. I know people like to debate when life begins, but that child was 100% real to us. I was gutted afterwards. I could barely function. Eventually we realized we couldn’t just sit in the house, surrounded by all this baby stuff we’d bought in our excitement. It was too painful. We needed escape.

The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers was playing at the time. We bought tickets and lost ourselves in the story. After, I actually felt a little better. But never again would life feel so carefree. Like Frodo after his encounter with a Mordor blade, it was a wound that will never fully heal. I will carry it the rest of my life.

Sometimes I wonder what value there is in writing about movies. There are more important things to spend one’s life thinking about, more vital causes to champion, and certainly more profitable topics to pursue. It’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. But last night I remembered exactly why movies matter so much.

Sometimes you just need something to take you away from the pain, even if only for a little while.

My aunt used to jokingly ask who my favorite aunt was, because she was my only aunt. But she would’ve been the answer if I’d had a million aunts. She was the best, and I miss her terribly.