As many people who have followed this blog for awhile probably know, October 5th is the date my sister Erin died, eleven years ago now. Each year on this date, or at least as close to it as we can all manage, our family will get together for an evening of remembrance. We do it for ourselves, but we’re also honoring one of Erin’s wishes at the same time — her greatest fear in facing death was the idea that she might be forgotten. Of course, regardless of how much all of our lives have changed over the past eleven years, there was never really a chance of this happening.
But this time every year my mother rounds back to this same thought, because she so desperately wants to know that her three grandsons have managed to hold onto memories of the aunt they loved so much during the time they had with her.
As I’ve done a few other times to commemorate the date and do my part of keeping her memory alive, I went back to the memoir I wrote (and shelved) that chronicled our experiences during her illness and death and dug out a passage to share, this time as much about the boys as about Erin. Fair warning — it’s not exactly an easy read, so steer your way around it with the page breaks if you want.
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The following day would be my last at school for awhile, though I didn’t know it at the time. I warned my student teacher Stephanie it was likely the day would soon come when she’d show up and there would be a sub in my place, and there weren’t any promises I could make her about how much notice she’d have beforehand. Days later the responsibility fell to her to tell my class Erin had died. Actually, let me clarify: The responsibility did not fall to her -- this college girl took it upon herself to tell them when others were too uncomfortable or unable to do it.
I left right after school and spent a few hours at Erin’s that evening. She was in bed the whole time, in and out of sleep. She woke briefly while we were there and saw through her glazed stare and oxygen mask that Jenny and I were with her. Ben and Matt came with their dad to visit that night as well, after leaving John with his other grandma. For John, dying was what happened to an action figure when it was stabbed by another action figure, or fell into the lava that seemed to follow his unfortunate collection of action figures everywhere they went. Dying has no permanence when you’re only three, and even though he knew Erin was dying he didn’t really get what it meant. Matt had a better idea, but it was still a bit beyond him to completely grasp. Ben, however, was all too aware of what was happening.
Erin’s eyes opened a little when she saw the boys were there, so they were able to sit on her bed and hold her hands. Matt was a little bouncy, holding the Special Baseball she had given him while he sat beside her. He picked up on the somber mood of the room but was still his irrepressible five-year-old self, happy to see her again. When I think of what a sensitive kid he was, it’s almost a blessing he didn’t fully understand what was happening.
Ben took it hard. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding Erin’s hand after she had fallen back to sleep, after Matt had followed everyone else back out to the living room. Jenny sat beside him. Ben had the tendency to go internal whenever something was bothering him, and was good at forcing a smile when he didn’t know how else to react. I couldn’t really fault him for not knowing what to do. I had never lost anyone as close to me as Erin was to him.
Jenny saw through it though, and told him it was okay to cry. I was sure he would just sit there smiling unresponsively, pretending to be brave, but of course she’s his mom. As soon as she gave him permission, he broke. Still holding Erin’s hand, he slowly tipped in and buried his face in Jenny’s shoulder, and all I could hear was the too familiar sound of heaving sobs, and all I could see was the involuntary hunching of his shoulders.
Erin woke and saw he was there so they talked a little. Jenny got up to give them some alone time, but I stayed back in one of the corner chairs to watch; being his godfather and knowing he was about to lose his godmother amplified how protective I felt toward him. They had a good conversation for awhile, but as Erin talked longer she stopped making sense; the morphine-induced dementia was taking over, and Ben started getting uncomfortable since he hadn’t encountered it before. I hurried out to tell Jenny what was happening, and she called him into the next room to give him a way out. When he said goodnight to her, I’m sure at some level he knew it was going to be for the last time.
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I have a photo collage frame hanging in my hallway, showing each of the boys with Erin at some point in what would turn out to be her final year. I chose these pictures specifically since I feel they were so representative of who they each were at that time, and what their relationship with her was like.
Erin and Ben, either New Year’s Eve 2003 or New Year's Day 2004. Here you see that uncertain smile he’d wear sometimes, as Erin held on to him. I’ve always had my own ideas about what she was thinking about here, but I can really only speculate.
Erin and Matt, Thanksgiving 2003. Matt’s a high school junior now. You can tell here what a nonstop kind of kid he was at this age, from his little grin and the legitimate twinkle in his eye. Erin was definitely smiling for the camera here, but she was always happy whenever he was around.
Erin and John, Summer of 2004. We were all at a cousin’s graduation open house, and when Erin arrived — a little later than the rest of us because her energy level was waning — John toddled down the driveway to meet her when he saw her coming. This is one of my favorite pictures.
Only the boys themselves could ever say how much they still know of her, whether that would be a deep library of memories, or a few highlights mixed with an emotional echo they can’t quite source, or a vague and general idea of who she was strengthened by the things the rest of us share. I know Ben and Matt have some memories. But John was only three when Erin died, which made him a little older than I had been when my grandpa Joe died. I never really remembered anything about my grandfather, but throughout my life I’ve heard the stories and I’ve seen the pictures. I’m not sure how important it is that I didn’t have memories of him that were my own, because I still know who he was and what he meant to so many people I love. That’s always been enough to make him a part of my life. So if that’s what time holds in store for any of the boys when it comes to remembering Erin, I think that’s okay. In the end, she’s still in there for them somewhere.
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