The Many Layers of Loss

Auntie Chee shares an Italian Ice with her great, great nephew.

My Auntie Chee passed away last week, at the age of 96 and 338 days. Knowing Auntie Chee, she’s disappointed she didn’t see 100. I’m not sure I’ve ever known anyone to age as well as she did. She looked exactly the same at 96 as she did at 60–shock of thick white hair, sparkling eyes, strong tan arms.

Auntie Chee is a person who is hard to capture in the dates and factoids of an obituary. She wasn’t in the military; she didn’t attend a prestigious college; she didn’t have a noteworthy career. But everyone in my hometown knew Auntie Chee. She didn’t drive, so she walked everywhere, lugging bags of groceries up the hill to her house, tromping to the cemetery to tend her husband’s grave, and trekking a mile each way to church every Sunday.

Auntie Chee’s house bordered the playground of the local elementary school, and my friends from childhood still remember seeing her mowing her lawn (something she did until well into her 90s) and hanging clothes on the line (a sight that gave me solace as I struggled through the perils of 6th grade recess).

I went to say my last good-byes to Auntie Chee in early May (never imagining she’d live to early June), and I had a good cry on the drive home as I realized her death in many ways signified the death of my childhood views of home. For so many years, the little island in Maine where I grew up was my Never Land—a place where I never aged and people never changed. I knew wherever I traveled, I’d eventually go home and wave to Auntie Chee sitting on her porch as I ran by or see our family filling up the last two pews of our little village church. Auntie Chee’s passing is the end of that consolation for me.

If you’ve lost a loved one or even just watched them age, you know what I’m talking about. There are many layers to loss. We don’t just mourn the person we knew. We may mourn the past—the loss of a time, innocence, and a security blanket we were sure of. Or we may mourn all the things we envisioned in the future—a walk down the aisle, time spent with grandkids, a trip that was planned, a birthday milestone.

Some of us deal with loss better than others. Some of us openly talk and grieve (or like me, write), while others pretend not to care. Some of us heal by doing—volunteering to help, throwing ourselves into providing daily care—while others cope by avoiding.

Regardless of what we may show, we all deal with loss in our own personal ways. And, unfortunately, no matter how old we grow or how long our loved ones live (even 96 years like Auntie Chee), these losses and their layers don’t become easier.

Molly Rowe owns FirstLight Home Care with her husband, Steve Rowe, and lives in Swampscott with their two sons. FirstLight provides non-medical in-home care to adults in Swampscott, Marblehead, Nahant, Lynn, Salem, Peabody, Danvers, Beverly, and Lynnfield. For more information and help caring for your loved ones in the comfort of their own homes, please visit FirstLight’s website at www.salem.firstlighthomecare.com or contact Molly at 781-691-5755/[email protected]