I had been with her Tuesday (along with my brother and sister-in-law), from mid-afternoon until 9:15 p.m. and was called back again Wednesday morning at 12:40 a.m. and stayed until 2:15.
Her death has created a large void in our family. And yesterday I realized how vast her impact really was.
My aunt was born in 1921. She had cerebral palsy from birth and wasn’t given much of a chance to live past her teens. She and my mom would always joke about how she out-lived all of the doctors who diagnosed her early demise. Throughout her life she was a regular member of the family. Sure, her ability to walk was not as agile as her peers and her speech was a bit more difficult to understand than most, but she always had a smile, a laugh, a joke, a twinkle in her eyes, and a way about her that brought out the love in all those she encountered. And…she was bright, very bright – with a memory that was fantastic.
Thelma (Toby as the family called her) was a delight.
She lived with my grandparents, who usually resided close to my parents, my brother, and me (except for the years when they lived in Florida). Toby had the knack of making friends. People were drawn to her and became her friends first and eventually our entire family’s.
Her smile was infectious.
After my grandparents died she lived on her own for a bit (next to my mom’s place) until it was decided that she should live in a “home.”
For 26 years she resided in Inglis House – a “wheelchair community.” Even though when she first moved in she would walk on her own or behind her wheelchair. For a sizable portion of those years I would either meet my mom there on Saturdays or mom and I would drive there to visit “Aunt Toby,” stay for a few hours and enjoy her company.
Yesterday (Thursday) I went back to collect her things. No one knew of her passing. They greeted me with questions, wanting to know when Thelma would return. When I told them that she had passed the outpouring of shock and tears overwhelmed me. These other “family members” were completely distraught. The crying continued throughout the four hours that I was there. Just writing this brings tears to my eyes.
My aunt would sit in her wheelchair in the lobby and great people as they entered. She always worried about her friends and family. “How are you?” she would ask those who passed her or stopped to chat. Often, she would follow that with a specific question about their children, an event they had previously mentioned, or some other bit of information they had told her during another visit. Today I was asked by Ann, a woman who has worked at Inglis House for years, “Do you realize the impact her passing will have on this place? Not only on the residents and staff, but on the vendors and delivery people who would look for Thelma when they entered or would drop off their shipments and ask where their “girlfriend” was so that they could chat with her and…on the families of the residents who would want to talk to her, even if just to check in.”
I had no idea. I couldn’t believe how many lives this little, frail, yet strong, woman had touched. This 87 year old lady who had outlived her doctors was the matriarch of a facility of hundreds.
And, when she was admitted to the hospital, the physician, on Saturday, said to me that he had never seen a person with her condition live even close to her age. He was amazed. Even the Cantor who would lead the Jewish Services told me that she had to do two case studies for her schooling and both of them were about my aunt.
Now, as we ready for her funeral, I know that my aunt was an extraordinary woman. A woman who gave the most important thing anyone can give in their lifetime - the gift of love.
There was one other thing that she brought to all of those people she met…perspective. You see – no matter how she felt, she would always say that she was “fine.”
So, the next time you worry about your bills or your relationship, school or your next sale, think of this woman in her wheelchair and put your life in perspective. And maybe you’ll see this tiny, strong, and beautiful 87 year old woman with cerebral palsy who would tell you that "it’ll be fine."
We’ll miss you aunt Toby…we’ll miss you so very much.
