Aunt Irene, part 2

Connection revived

On that warm Easter Sunday, I was driving Irene, my aunt, home to her apartment. We had spent the day with my stepmother at my old family home, a place filled with warmth and cherished memories. My relationship with Irene at that time was just that. I'd see her on holidays when I’d drive her back and forth for dinners. That changed that day when she fell out of my car.

Irene and me, early 70s

Let me start from the beginning. In 1959, at 55, Irene retired and moved back home to Evansville, Indiana. She spent most of the first half of her adult life living in Washington, DC, with her husband. Before moving home, she couldn't visit much due to the distance, her husband, and her job. On returning home, she moved to a duplex that Dad owned just down the street.

I was nine at that time. I spent many hours with Irene and my sister in her apartment. She lived on the second floor of the duplex, which had two entrances. She always wanted us to use the back door, which involved climbing steep metal steps, which were scary when covered with ice or snow, and burning hot in the summer. The back door opened into her bright, small kitchen, with windows allowing the sun to pour in. We spent many of our visits playing Scrabble on the chrome-trimmed Formica table shoved against the wall while one of the many parakeets she owned over the years flew around us. She taught us to knit.

Her small living room was formal, with stiff, uncomfortable chairs. Despite the discomfort, I'd often sit there while she paid bills or wrote out correspondence at her cherry secretary. This sizeable ornate piece of furniture was painted over with antiquing, a widespread technique in the 50s. Mom, who loved the look so much that she antiqued most of the wood furniture in our house, helped Irene with that secretary and her other furniture.

One of the two bedrooms in Irene's apartment had drawers built into the wall. I found that fascinating and loved sleeping in that spare room during sleepovers. But I also saw Irene often at home. She'd join us for a meal or walk down to our house to spend the evening.

Irene enjoyed traveling with her many women friends, including her best one, Miriam, who lived in the downstairs apartment. They shared many adventures across the US, particularly enjoying their trips to Mexico. But she would still spend time with Mari and me and later just me when my sister had other things to do.

She was always closer to Mari. They seemed to have an unbreakable bond even when they lived miles apart and didn't see each other for years. I never thought Irene liked me. Maybe I reminded her of my mom, whom she had issues with for unknown reasons. Perhaps I was too young, or maybe she was too old to want a relationship with her brother's only child living in town.

After I moved out of the house, I only saw her on holidays, when we'd meet at my family home. After Dad died in 1987 and Miriam had moved to her family's home in Kentucky, we sold the duplex. Irene moved to The Rathbone, a beautiful old building built in 1905 as a retirement home for “ladies of means.” These were small apartments but spacious enough for her to bring her favorite furniture, including the secretary desk and Charlie's chair.

Charlie’s chair with our Ally

Since her new home was several miles from my family home, I'd pick her up every holiday. That was our relationship—just some small talk and chauffeur service—until that day when she fell out of my car and hurt her arm. Luckily, she was okay with just a sprain. Still, I decided that day I needed to forge a relationship with her regardless of whether she wanted it. Dad would have liked that.

I started visiting her at her apartment a couple times a week. At first, she didn't believe she'd see me again. "You don't need to come back," she'd say. But I would. I asked her about her life in Washington, DC, how she and Charlie met, and her parents. As I continued to visit her, she began to trust me. Finally, our relationship changed - Irene asked me about my life. When I took a new job, she wasn't happy. " I guess I won't see you much anymore," was her response to my new position. I assured her I would continue my visits. We always took a walk, even inside the building when the weather was disagreeable, but not the long walks she used to love in our old neighborhood. We also talked about many things. One day, we looked through her photo book, which contained pictures of her parents and maternal grandparents. Her paternal grandparents and her maternal grandfather died before she was born. Unfortunately, I never asked about stories about the grandparents.

During a later conversation, she asked me why she was still alive. I told her that she was here for me. I was telling the truth. As our relationship grew in her last years, I discovered that I wasn't just doing this for Dad or Irene but also for myself.

She reached the point where she needed more care and could no longer live alone. It was a difficult change when she moved into the Regina Nursing Home. Still, Irene showed remarkable resilience in adjusting to her new surroundings. Her strength reminded me of her younger days when she owned property in her name and then married a divorcee. Being Catholic and marrying a divorced man could fracture some families. Fortunately, Irene's parents welcomed him.

One afternoon at this first nursing home, Irene and I walked around the small campus and then sat down to work on a crossword puzzle, something she loved to do. Her eyesight was getting worse with her advancing macular degeneration, so I read her the clues. She concluded that I wasn't very good at crosswords. I agreed!

When that nursing home shut down, I was concerned, even knowing her strength and how she would cope with it. That first night at dinner, I sat with her at Columbine Nursing Home and asked her how she was doing, moving to this new home. This 95-year-old woman looked at me and said, "You can adjust to anything."

We celebrated her 100^th birthday there with Mari's and Mariam's families, and my friend Marsha.

Irene’s 100 year old birthday party

Her health had been declining, but the last year was the worst. There was little communication, with her sleeping on every visit. I knew the day was coming and didn't want to let go. She and I had revived a connection that I treasured. The day before she died, I brought Dave along for what I knew would be my final visit. She was unconscious, but I knelt by her bed and told her I loved her, I was okay now, and she could go to Charlie, Dad, and all those loved ones who went before her. When I left the room, Dave spent a few minutes with her, telling her he'd take care of me and that she could go. That night, just 5 days shy of her 102^nd birthday, she passed away peacefully.

Every day, I'm thankful for that day she fell out of my car. I miss our friendship.