The first time I said goodbye to Aunt Honey for the last time…
The first time I said goodbye to my Aunt Honey for the last time, a ring of people stood around her hospital bed, watching her watch them. Most of them were our family who’d traveled from various distances to see her, spurred by the telephone chain that had reported she had hours to live. Some were hospital workers, ducking in to check her vitals. One was her three-year old grandson. He’d arrived moments before to some fanfare by our family, and his golden curls and sweet sunshine smile had delayed the task I was dreading.
You’d think I’d have prepared for the moment. Three days of sitting around a hospital had left plenty of time for thinking. But, I hadn’t done much deep reflection. Despite the airy brightness of the three-story lobby, where I’d spent most of my time when not in the hospital room, I felt suffocated — as if all the beautiful warm Florida air had been sucked out of the space, leaving little room for breathing, let alone thinking.
Yet here I was, having to say goodbye, and I was unprepared. My father pushed his way through the people to my aunt’s bedside. He leaned down and said, “Honey, Chrissy has to go to the airport now.” And I remember her face tightening up, her arms flopping by her sides, like a small child about to throw a tantrum. She’d shown such bravery the few days I’d been there, her poise and natural charm rising to the surface, unchecked by the cancer that was ravaging her body. The first thing she’d done upon our arrival was offer us snacks. She was the consummate hostess. An unstoppable force. Even in her fuzzy pink robe in a hospital bed. The tightened face didn’t seem in keeping with her.
I was annoyed at my dad. I felt pushed when I needed the moment to unfold more easily. But now he’d left me no choice. Not only that, but the entire family had stopped their chatter and was focused on what would happen next. I sat on Honey’s bed, and through tears and gulps said “You are very important to me.” It was the one sentiment I needed her to know. The one thing that I didn’t want left to uncertainty.
“What?” she said. My crying had muffled my voice, so I had to repeat it, much to my embarrassment.
“Please take care of Daniel and Lauren,” she said through tears. “Lauren relies on you so much. I know you don’t think she does, but she does. Please don’t let them slip away.”
“I promise, I will take care of them,” I said, “And Uncle John, too.” I put as much conviction in my voice as I could. This was a promise to my dying aunt. A second sentiment I didn’t want left to uncertainty.
After that, there didn’t seem anything left to do but go. I put on my backpack and said goodbye to various family members, most of them in tears at this point. I awkwardly hugged everyone, my backpack making it difficult for them to reach their arms around me.
Even in the moment, the goodbye seemed so wrong. So inelegant. A scene from a movie that I hoped would later find its way to the cutting room floor.
But off I went anyway, to meet my husband in Kansas City where he’d spent Easter with my mother-in-law and his extended family. After 18 hours together there, John took a flight back to our home in San Francisco, and I flew to Copenhagen, then to Norway, for a week of teaching. I wasn’t entirely sure how I’d manage. How would I pull myself together to talk to people, let alone a classroom of them? But it turned out work was a sweet reprieve. I performed well — some of the best teaching I’d done — because I cared so little, but was so present. So painfully aware of life. It left me open to my students, raw and unguarded in a way I’d never been and wouldn’t be again. My normal nerves washed away and were replaced with a dull focus on my aunt who sat dying thousands of miles away. In a hospital room in a fuzzy pink robe.
I was home in San Francisco for a week before I realized I’d be going to London. Aunt Honey had been medivaced to one of the best heart and cancer hospitals in London. She’d traveled with a small band of family — her husband, children, and brothers making the trip on a flight behind her. But after two weeks, they’d had to return to their lives, leaving my cousin Lauren and my Uncle John to manage.
Lauren was chasing down doctors to figure out test results, next steps, and medication. Charging into the hospital kitchen to demand something other than a strawberry milkshake with her mother’s meal because Honey hated strawberry. Spending nights at the hospital with Honey, who was wracked by so much pain she nearly died from it.
“How are you?” I’d written to Lauren after a few days of being home. A stupid thing to ask, but I couldn’t come up with anything else. “I hope I’m strong enough to get her through this,” she’d eventually written back. A sentiment so unlike my strong upbeat cousin that I felt my stomach twist. “I’m coming there. I’ll fly out on Sunday,” I’d written back, which had elicited a frenzy of texts from Lauren who’d insisted that wasn’t what she’d meant, and that she’d had a moment of weakness, and to please wait and talk with her brother who was surely on the next flight back. But he was delayed, so off I went, buying an open ticket for two days later.
Despite my hesitation at going — Lauren putting me off, my reluctance to get back on an airplane again — once I was on the flight, I felt an enormous relief to be going where I wanted to be. Walking into the hospital room was like coming home. That feeling of sweet relief. The finality of a long trip done.
I count marrying my husband as the best decision I’ve ever made in my entire life. But, going to London was my second-best decision. I play a game sometimes with myself, where I think about what would have happened if I hadn’t gone. I actually can’t quite imagine it. That week of caring for my aunt, spending time with my cousin and uncle, being with Honey during what would turn out to be one of the final weeks of her life, was an experience so precious that my brain cannot comprehend the thought of having missed it. Even now, a year after it happened, I see the week as a monumental experience. A moment where life forked, and I took the better road.
At the end of my time in London, Lauren and I went to Honey and John’s flat. Honey had been released from the hospital two days earlier. The family was heading to Ireland for Honey to spend her remaining days in their family home in Donegal. Their flat in London was quite special to me. It was a place they let me stay when I visited London — my favorite city — over the years. It’s a small flat outside the city. Perfect for one, but it felt strange to have four of us bumping around the minute living room.
I decided to take a walk, despite the rain that was coming down outside. Their flat sat on the Thames, and when I visited I often walked towards the city, enjoying the beautiful homes that lined the river, the roses that tumbled over stone walls, the pubs with their big porches looking out over the water.
Honey decided to walk with me, which we both knew was unrealistic. She couldn’t make it a city block without getting winded. But we decided she’d take a short stroll with me and then head back inside before I left for a longer walk. She donned on a raincoat and we rode the elevator to the ground floor, stepping out into the cold afternoon, hands shielding our eyes from the rain. We strolled down to the water and made a right at the river. There was a beautiful restaurant I’d long admired a few paces down. “This place closed,” Honey said, gesturing to the large glass windows of the building. White roses climbed down the front of the restaurant, growing without care or guidance. The rain had knocked down their petals, and a fine white snow of flowers lined the yellow bricked walkway.
We turned our backs to the restaurant and stood and stared at the Thames together.
I’m sure we spoke more, Honey likely pointing out or remarking on something that had changed since she’d last been there. But I can’t remember. The details of that conversation have gone fuzzy. The impression of that moment though — the rain coming down, the white rose petals, the smell of cold — still sits with me.
The thought that this was one of the last moments with my aunt surfaced and floated there. I wasn’t surprised. All week my brain had been helping me memorialize the time. “Savor this moment; it’s one of your last,” it would say at the oddest times. I’d pushed down the thought during other times of the week. It was too much to take in; too much to handle. But I didn’t push it away this time. The thought bobbed there, like one of the wet ducks in the Thames, present and unassuming.
I felt I should say something more. Tell her again how important she was to me. Outside of my parents and my grandfather, she was the most important adult in my life. I’m not sure she knew that. She’d taken me under her wing when my parents had divorced, protecting me during gatherings against the mayhem of our family, a role I hadn’t realized my mom had assumed until she was no longer there to do it. Honey gave me an anchor — a place to stay — always with her and my uncle. I’d be visiting them with my father and stepmother, who would go off on their own adventures, leaving me to sort out my plan for the day. Honey never made me feel like a burden. We’d run errands, or go kayaking, or make dinner together. I felt welcomed, as if she and my uncle were delighted to have me stay for a week, eat their food, demand their time.
By watching Honey, I saw the power she had to make fun, make people feel cherished, welcomed, connected. She was the hub of our family, Our heartbeat. She was an integral piece of me. Losing her meant losing a part of myself. But I couldn’t say that to her during that moment. Instead, we watched the river. Then, I ushered her back inside before heading out for my own walk.
When I said goodbye to my aunt for the last time the second time, I was carrying a bag of rubbish in my hand. I’d finished my walk, we’d had dinner, and Lauren and I had a taxi waiting for us outside the flat. I’d volunteered to take down the trash on our way out. So, I found myself hugging my aunt goodbye with a bag of trash clutched in my hand. We both teared up again, but I said, “I’m not going to do a big goodbye like we did in Florida. That’s ridiculous. I’ll see you in July when I come to Ireland to visit.” I did hug her again, though, rubbish and all. “I can’t believe I have a bag of trash in my hand,” I finally said, “This is perfect. Just perfect.” And we all sort of laughed. Then off I went with Lauren to our taxi, staring out the car window for blocks, trying to take in what had happened.
But I also told myself that I’d see Honey again. After all, we’d had a big unnecessary tearful goodbye in Florida, and here I was three weeks later saying goodbye again. In a month, I’d be joining them in Ireland.
This was the plan we’d made that would never happen. Honey would die two weeks later, surrounded by her husband, children and grandchild, in a hospice not far from her beloved home in Donegal.
When I think about my aunt and our final goodbye, I think about our moment at the River Thames. I think about standing there next to her, gazing out at the water together. I think of the cold and of the rain. I think of us standing in a place that we both loved and shared, thanks to her and my uncle’s generosity. I think about walking her back inside, where she took off her raincoat, threw it around my shoulders, and buttoned it up on me, making sure I was warm and dry before I embarked on my rainy walk alone.
