Cousin Ethel, 94, is on her way to the multiverse; she’s in
Hospice in Phoenix, where she has lived for the past fifty years. She’s in bed,
listening to the news on CNN or MSNBC and getting riled up over the antics of
the Regime, because she still cares about this world, her place in it, and what
we will leave to our children and their children and their children.
Ethel’s had a rough few weeks, my mom’s sister, Aunt Sydell,
the snowbird, reports. She’s been in and out of a horrible rehab facility. Now
she’s at a Hospice called Ryan House, which is interesting, as her family name
is Rein. “Isn’t that funny?” my 84 year old Aunt, also a Rein noted. “But she’s finally home; it’s a very nice place,
where she is now. She seems peaceful.”
Aunt Sydell phoned me yesterday when she and my Uncle Lou returned
from saying goodbye to Ethel, her first cousin. “She’s not dead, yet,” my aunt clarifies. “I just
didn’t want to surprise you. She’s waiting
for Ron to show up.” Ron is Ethel’s only living son and he couldn’t travel due
to his own health issues.. Her other son, Rich, was a great guy. A pediatrician, who specialized in helping
abused children, he died at 57, just a year after his father died of
Alzheimer’s.
My Cousin Ethel has been through a lot, but her resilience
always astounded me. Like my mother and my aunt, Ethel is a strong, smart, tough
lady. But unlike my mother, she maintained a positive attitude about life. She
embraced hers with pleasantness, always staying active, sharp of mind, and
engaged in her community. She ran the gift shop at the Senior facility where she
lived independently the past 7 years.
In her nineties, Ethel found a boyfriend, volunteered for
the Democratic Party, and cherished her friendships with her feisty women friends,
all outspoken politically. until their last breaths. She always made new friends, as people, old
and young, loved her dearly.
Sadly, my mom and her fell out, mostly because I don’t think
that Ethel understood the extent that my mom suffered from Dementia. The dynamic between the two of them
deteriorated over the years, with both having hurt feelings over small petty
things. Though I think of Ethel as
kind-hearted, with a good sense of humor, her relationship with my mom had
problematic dynamics. They competed with
each other in some strange ways, maybe a throwback to when they were growing up.
Ethel’s mother died in childbirth with her. She had an
abusive father who neglected her; at age 15, she moved in with my mom’s family.
She went to New York, got a job, and married a good hearted sailor, Jerry, when
she was just out of high school. She worked in the family owned furniture
business, and raised her two sons in Waterloo, Iowa.
Ethel and Jerry relocated to the desert when their boys were
grown. When my parents moved to Arizona
in the late 80’s, Ethel and Jerry extended themselves and remained part of
their social circle for years. When
Jerry got Alzheimer’s, my dad didn’t really understand his behavior,
ironically, much in the same way that Ethel didn’t understand my mom’s.
“When Ron comes, then she’ll go,” I say to my aunt on our
call.
“There aren’t many of us left,” she sighs.
“I know. I’m so sorry,
Aunt Sydell. This must be hard for you.”
Her voice catches, “She wanted someone to stay with her last
night because she didn’t want to die alone. Jerry’s cousin went to Ryan House. I
just couldn’t deal with it.”
“That’s okay,” I console her. “Ron will be there when she
dies, which is what she wants.”
When I hang up with Aunt Sydell, I pause to remember Ethel, hold
her in my mind. The last time I saw her
was at brunch at Chompies in Scottsdale four years ago. Pat and I were with her son, Rich, my Aunt
and Uncle, and my mom. We laughed over some crazy good Jewish deli food and
talked about Obama. Ethel was excited that a Democrat might actually be elected
to the Senate from Phoenix, but that didn’t pan out and instead Arizona got
Jeff Flake. Ethel despised him.
Ethel is of the generation that I am rapidly losing, one of
my elders, who has informed my family life.
I loved getting Sydell, my mom, and Ethel talking about their
childhoods, growing up in a large extended Jewish family, where people moved
fluidly between households in Patterson, New Jersey and Wilkes Barre, Pennsylvania.
I paid attention to their stories of lows and highs, good
times and hard times. Ordinary, not
extraordinary. Just life. These three women shared so much over the
decades; they attended each other’s weddings, anniversaries, holiday
parties. They stayed in touch, following
the progress of children and grandchildren.
Whenever I visited my parents in Arizona, I would have a
meal with Cousin Ethel and Jerry, and then with just Ethel. I always made it a point to connect with
her.
Ethel once told me that one of her biggest regrets was not
having the memory of ever seeing her mother.
As she transitions, I imagine Ethel being greeted by her mother. And
what a reunion that will be! The thought of their embrace comforts me.
