“Thank goodness he’s gone and finally out of my hair.”
She pictures him, briefly, with his friends: out fishing in the sun, without a thought in the world for her. Far from sadness or resignation at this, she feels freedom and a measure of joy. For the first time in weeks she relaxes enough to become aware of the ache in her upper shoulders. She reaches up, rubs that tight triangle of flesh, decides the gesture is pointless, and opts instead to think about all the chores she wants to complete before he gets back. The possibility of a clean house and neatly stacked piles of clean laundry is something that usually energizes her as his persistent but well-meaning interference often leaves their apartment in something of a disarray. Today, however, she’s unexpectedly tired, as if she could sleep for days, tired from the immensity of a half-century of life, by the weight of the angry yoke across her shoulders.
My Aunt Joan, Joan of the Bronx, walks like an old woman to the kitchen, although she is not that old. In her own kitchen, a woman alone, she brews a pot of coffee, because she is god-awful tired. The smell of coffee fills the apartment, and she leans on the little countertop bar, looking into the living room. Finally she can take the fatigue no more and postpones the long list of all her chores.
“I’ll just have myself a catnap on the sofa, and if one or two things don’t get done, well, I’ll just have to leave it alone.”
A day later, her husband returns. The apartment smells like coffee, and Joan is lying on the sofa. When he bends to wake her, he finds that she is dead.
At the funeral, Joan’s husband says to one of her surviving sisters, “Whatsa matter witchu O’Keefes? Yehs sure die awfully early.”
Notwithstanding that he was a) distraught and b) an insensitive pig, he did have a point, which I can explain.
Joan died of a heart attack and probably didn’t have to, even though heart disease is the number one killer of women in the United States. If she had called for help because she recognized the signs, early treatment could easily have saved her. A neighbor who performed CPR could have saved her.
Even so, to pass away on your own sofa amid the lingering scent of coffee isn’t the worst way to go. Slán Go Fóill, Joan.
TIP:
Enter the amount, and click "Tip" to submit!
Kerry Lauerman
Cary Tennis
Heather Havrilesky
King Kaufman
Madame Bitch
Joan Walsh
Salon.com
Comments
Also, I hate how whenever I read a list of symptoms, the hypochondriac in me comes out and I'm sure they all apply to me.
All kidding aside, this is valuable information - thanks for posting it.
Dying in your own home on your favorite couch may be far preferable to dying in a hospital with a tube down your throat and your hands restrained or several years of increasing disability with frequent hospitalizations ending in death. We are social animals. When a member of our family or friend dies, part of us dies. Life is hard, but that is the nature of being human. I am sorry for your loss.
I hope your Aunt Joan enjoyed hers as much.
We all want to live as long as we can, but we will only live as long as we do. In my mind's eye, I am comparing your aunt's heart attack, where she died peacefully on her sofa, to my father's stroke, where he spent weeks in ICU and a final three years blind, partially paralyzed and at the mercy of a shrewish new wife who was emotionally unprepared to be a caretaker for a new husband. You aunt's demise seems preferable.
She was young, in her 40s, and her early death has haunted me all my life. It cemented in me the knowledge that I am vulnerable, that I may not live for a century as my maternal grandmother did.
Thank you for reminding us that we need to pay attention and take seriously any sudden or unusual physical symptoms, or maybe even more crucially, to heed that little inner voice that tells us something is just not right.
But truly, that's exactly how I want to go. (Although there would surely be a slug of good Irish whiskey in the coffee cup--just for flavor.)
I think this Yiddish phrase has the same essence as the Gaelic one you employed to conclude this moving tribute.
Anyway - as always, alix, a very resonating piece. I'm sorry for your loss.
I can think of few more pleasant ways to have to leave this place, Alix. Wonderful post, and of course my deepest sympathies on your aunt's passing.
My aunt Mary used to live on 241st and White Plains Road, with the el right outside her windows. Visiting was always a treat. Guess I need to check up on Mary and see what's happening, it's been a while. Thanks for the kick in the pants on that one. :-D
Susanne, it's funny you mention that. Many of the women on that side of my family have died quite young, despite living comparatively healthy lives (although not ones without some stress). Some of the reason revealed itself when both my mom and my other aunt were diagnosed with morbidly high cholesterol levels (don't ask me to get in to the whole good/bad differential. Suffice to say, at its highest, my mom's number reached 420--a measurement that had to be tested twice for the docs to believe she was still, in fact, among the living). So yes, I think the ubiquitous tubes employed by physicians kind of suck, but early testing, medication and better eating habits (we do love the butter in my fam) might have postponed the sofa nap a few years.