Sadness

My aunt died Thursday.

She went to the hospital July 4 with a fever and vomiting that had been lingering for a few days. Her gallbladder was removed a few days later—a simple solution, so we all thought. Instead, things spiraled out of control. Her temperature would rise and fall and rise and fall. Her lungs filled with fluid—28 pounds of fluid to be exact—and her oxygen levels got dangerously low. It was one thing after the other and one day would be filled with good news, the next—bad. But we never thought it would come to this. (Ultimately her arthritis medication, Humira, shut down her immune system and wrecked havoc on her liver.)

There has been a lot of mourning since Thursday. In the hospital room that night as we held hands as a family and prayed around my deceased aunt. A few hours later as we walked into my uncle’s silent home—one typically filled with laughs and conversation. At random times throughout the weekend—when the next family member would arrive from out of town or something would trigger a memory. Monday at the mortuary upon seeing my aunt resting peacefully in her casket and witnessing her nine grandchildren seeing the same. Yesterday at her funeral when we said our final farewells. But today might be one of the hardest days yet. My cousins have returned to Kansas City and Austin; my home is now silent. There are no errands to run or plans to make; things to distract us from reality. Instead, we have to return to our lives. Return to work. Pick up where we left off. And it’s hard. Today is hard. For the first time in a week, I’m alone. I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want to catch up on my emails. I don’t want to make travel arrangements. I don’t want to think about selling ice cream. I don't want to clean my house. I just don’t want to. But I will. I know each day will get easier, but that’s no consolation for how heavy my heart is today.