Like this:

Exactly one year ago today, the world lost a lovely, vivacious, wise woman. Her family lost a mother, a grandmother, a sister, a wife, an aunt. For me, she was my godmother, my aunt, my friend. Today, on the anniversary of the day she flew away from this place, I feel a need to get down some memories before the memories start to fade.

If someone were to ask me one thing that I learned from Connie, it would most definitely be that she just lived. She did work full-time, but she poured herself into her two children, my cousins Brian and Michelle. Instead of having a mid-life crisis, she and my uncle Tom bought a Harley. Instead of sitting at home knitting and waiting for grandchildren, she went out with girlfriends, with Michelle, with her sisters. She and Tom took trips everywhere, each summer, on their Harley. One year they made a trip all the way up to Alaska with their Harley chapter. She drank margaritas, she took tons of photos on her trips, she laughed. When Michelle got married, she went with the bridesmaids and friends to the bachelorette party. She was right up on the dance platforms shaking her money maker with the rest of us. She did some shots, yelled out the window of the limo we took, and laughed tipsily with all of us 20- and 30-something ladies. She just lived. 

Shortly after Michelle got married and Brian moved to Phoenix to be with his (now) wife, Connie was exhausted and noticed a lump on her breast. Shortly after that, a week before Christmas actually, she was diagnosed with a very aggressive type of breast cancer. The type that still reproduces itself even as the current tumors and cancer cells are being removed. Still, Connie was optimistic and somehow maintained energy to work, to laugh, to drink margaritas, to live. Even after she was too exhausted to continue working, she had a worn-out smile on her face.

Two years, several surgeries, lots of scar tissue, several experimental drugs, and many rounds of chemotherapy later, she received the news that another surgery most likely wouldn’t do the trick. The cancer had spread to her liver, and to her brain. She didn’t tell many family members that her time was very limited until a couple weeks before Christmas. I got the news three days before Christmas, and although I knew it was possible for her to live another couple of months, I hoped for her sake that she would go quickly. Connie lived life; she shouldn’t have had to live the last part of her life drawn-out and miserable.

I took several days off from my job in Cincinnati to spend some precious time with Connie. In only a week after Christmas, her condition had declined very rapidly. The tumor in her brain had affected her speech so greatly that she didn’t make a lot of sense, but she was still able to convey several sentences. On New Year’s Day, I sat by her hospital bed in her living room and had the last conversation I knew I would ever have with her. I rested my arm on the pillows above her propped-up head, feeling the warmth in her weak body. I smelled the soft fragrance her shampoo left behind in her hair, admired her eyelashes that finally grew back. I just sat with her and enjoyed being in her presence. This woman, who was my mother when my own mom may not have been approachable, still gave me so much comfort when she was in such a feeble state. My parents took my 10-month-old daughter, Jadyn, into another room to talk with my uncle Tom. Alone in her living room with her, I quietly asked, “Aunt Connie?”
      She looked up at me and said, “Hmm?”  
      ”Um. Are you scared?”
      In her weak voice, but adamantly, she shook her head and said, “No. A test.”
      ”This is just a test?” I wanted to know what she was trying to tell me. What she meant. I didn’t want to misunderstand anything she said.
      ”Mmm hmm. Just a test.” She looked right into my eyes, and even though she was too tired to smile, I saw one in her eyes.
      ”Okay,” I said. She had previously asked my parents to ask me to sing and play piano for her funeral service. She had told them that if I didn’t think I could get through it, that it was alright if I recorded it ahead of time. I took this opportunity to ask her what she wanted before she wasn’t able to tell me. 
      ”Mom and Dad told me you want me to play and sing?”
      ”Yes. Play and sing,” she confirmed.  
      ”What songs would you like me to play?” I asked.
      ”Soft. Soft music,” she said. She couldn’t think of any specific song titles to give me at this point.
      ”I’d be happy to,” I told her.
      She did smile this time, lightly patted my hand, and said, “Thank you. Thank you.” I gently leaned over her to hug her and kiss her forehead, one last time. I felt the warmth of her soft skin against my lips, I said, “I love you so much.” I knew she loved me, too. All she could get out was the same, “Thank you.” 

So, about three weeks after our last Christmas with her here, and one week after my last conversation with her, on January 9, 2008, she went. Just six days short of her 57th birthday. Honestly, I’m happy for her. She’s out of her misery. She isn’t exhausted anymore, she isn’t going under the knife getting tumors cut out of her anymore, she has energy to run freely now. It sucks for those of us who knew and loved her, but it’s so much better for her. She was rescued from this place. Good for Connie.

I miss her every day. I miss the way her face lit up when she tasted something good, namely wine. I miss the way she used to say, “Oh. My. God.” to emphasize something. I miss her open ear, her open mind. When I lost four babies in a 14-month period, she listened, and gave me many words of encouragement. I remember her saying to me over the phone, as I cried, “Lysha, there has got to be a reason you keep miscarrying. You’ll figure it out. This will happen for you. These things don’t happen for no reason.” A year after that, my daughter was born.

I honestly don’t think Connie lived her life with any regrets. That’s inspiring to me. It may have been the inspiration I needed to quit my job to stay home with Jadyn. She inspired me to live without regrets. I’ve done some stupid, and even damaging, things in my life and I honestly don’t regret anything. Probably because there’s no point in regrets; they’re just a big burden that you’ll carry forever because it’s impossible to change the past. Mostly because I think even the worst circumstances can be used for good somehow. I think Connie used the shitty situations to change the future. That’s what I’m striving to do.

The biggest thing I took from her was that she lived. My life was much better because she was part of it, even though it wasn’t as long as I would have liked. Thanks to her example, I’m striving to do more than exist. I’m striving to live.

Connie with me and Jadyn, Christmas Eve 2007