Hello, Goodbye

She was just emitted to the hospital when I spoke to her. I recall her saying that she thought this was it, this was the end. The pain was so bad; she didn’t know she would return home. She left the passwords to her iPad and computer on the kitchen table before she left the house so that someone else could make use of them if she didn’t make it home. I thought, oh my goodness, how thoughtful and selfless of her.

I was about 34 weeks pregnant; I recall her saying I am going home to die, Brenda, I don’t want to die in hospital, and I hope I get to meet your son. I can still hear her voice. How final it all sounded, how clear the timeline now was. The harsh realisation of these two opposing timelines struck me deep in my stomach—the long-awaited arrival of my son and the departure of my beloved aunt Kathleen. The circle of life was at play; I was a carrying part of that circle and, at the same time, losing part of it.

My beautiful baby boy arrived at 38 weeks, pushed his way into this World, all 4kg of him. When he was seven weeks old, we brought the family back to my hometown. The meeting of the baby and grandparents is a sacred moment. But it was extra special now because I hadn’t been home for over a year and a half due to COVID. So it was a bittersweet trip as I knew I was also going home to say goodbye to my aunt.

We pulled up outside her home. The whole family got out of the car, and my aunt, her neighbour, let us in the back door. I have the most beautiful memories of going into Kathleen’s home over the years. It always felt so big, the fire roaring in the kitchen, the warmth, the colours, and her larger-than-life personality. She had a hearty laugh that would lift the room. I never saw her home as a small, modest cottage; it was like a portal that transported you to a place that felt as big as the life within it, a warm, safe and cosy home. This time, as I walked through that backdoor, it felt small, cold, as if I stepped into a black and white movie; the magical portal wasn’t working anymore. Death was lurking, its scent was strong, and it wasn’t leaving.

I walked into her room; my throat closed up when I saw her, she had changed so much, but her blue eyes still sparkled. I was so grateful to see her, to sit with her for those precious moments.

As we exchanged conversation, she told me she wouldn’t be far away and not to be sad; it was like my ears could hear her, but my brain couldn’t accept it. My eyes welled up; I could hardly see her through the tears, I was forcing the pain in my throat down, and the baby started to cry. I realised she was comforting me; Kathleen was ever thoughtful, kind, and loving. She was helping me to say goodbye, how beautiful. As I left, I held her hand, I could hardly speak, I told her I loved her, and as I got up to go, she gently said, “Don’t be sad, enjoy your life”.

She died on the 7th of September at 9:05 am. That morning, I went for a walk with my daughter, something we hadn’t done in a while. I think I knew it was happening. When I came in, I phoned my Dad, and he said “I was just about to phone you”, to which I replied, she is gone.

Grief is complicated; it creeps up on you when you least expect it.

Some weeks later, Abigail and I were running down that hall in the house; the monkeys were attacking us with bananas and coconuts. A tiger was running towards us in the distance. We ran for cover, wading our way through the marshes, past the crocodiles, and found safety on an island (also known as the couch). Abigail was laughing; you know that laugh a child has, I call it the sound of joy. We adults might feel joy, but we rarely make the sound of joy. I think that belongs to children. As we fell back on the couch or the island, I looked up at the ceiling.

Suddenly I was transported back in time. I was now looking at the wooden tongue and groove ceiling in our childhood home, and I could hear us as children laughing. Kathleen was chasing us around the sitting room with the poker. Oh my, did it make us laugh? It was one of those long brass pokers; I am not sure if it was ornamental or functional. Either way, it was big. It was one of my earliest memories of her, that and setting the fire alarm off every time she cooked while she babysat us. A tear rolled down my cheek; Abigail asked, did one of the monkeys get you with a banana?

She was an aunt, a friend, one of the most special people in my life. Through the years, the memories and stories are endless; she stood for me as my godmother, babysat us, brought us workbooks for school but, I think it was our love of art and colour that bonded us. I spent hours painting church murals and banners in her home. No matter where I was in the world, she always looked out for me. I imagine she did the same for all her friends and family.

I have a million memories of her. But my favourite is every time I went home to my parent’s house throughout my life; I would wait for her to call over. She would pull up in her wee car, which I don’t believe ever had power steering, and walk into the Kitchen full of life and fun. I can see her sitting at the kitchen table, with her milky tea, eating that piece of bread or biscuit she said she wasn’t going to eat; I can hear her say, “how’s Brenda” as she looks up with her piercing blue eyes.

Her parting gifted me with a profound gratification for the circle of life. Simultaneously saying hello to your child for the first time and saying goodbye to a loved one for the last time changes you deep down in your soul forever. I guess all loss changes us but hopefully, it makes us better.

This letter is Kathleen and for all, especially those grieving the loss of a loved one. I know this time of year can be hard on so many.

Christmas Time

A time for living, a time for believing

A time for trusting, not deceiving

Love and laughter and joy ever after

Ours for the taking, just follow the master...

Merry Christmas,

Working from Hawaii