So...my grandaunt died last night. It's been a long time coming. Two months, if you count starting from when she moved out of her house into a nursing home/hospital. Over ten years, if you count from the time she's prepared me for days like this. "
Take whatever you want from my house. When I die, people won't know how to distribute things." And so on. Not in a morbid way. She's 90+. I'd say 96, because that's what she was telling people this year. But I think she's really 94 (she likes to give herself upgrades.)
You, non-existent or unintentional reader, probably didn't know her. Bertha Wen, of Sun City Center, Florida. Former social worker in Michigan who put kids in adoptive homes. Cried for days when her dog Duchess died. Plus she was allergic to dogs, so she had to take shots to keep Duchess. She was a volleyball champ, she tells me. Spent all her allowance money on snacks when she was in boarding school in China. Her husband died young. Her baby died even younger. So she packed up and moved to the U.S. and started a new life as a middle-aged single woman. She was fabulous, strong, amazing, and it was effortless for her to be that way.
She's my favorite person. Maybe because we're not related by blood, so there were really no obligations. We chose to be friends. I got to choose to get to know her and spend time with her. It's weird that she's gone. Obvious thing to say, but it's all new to me having someone I really care about pass away. The rational part of me thinks that this is all good: she's lived an incredibly full life, she's been ready to go, she's in heaven now, and she passed very peacefully. Another part of me gets upset and just
misses her and wants to remember every part of her so I can tell my kids about this fantastic lady that was in my life and that I aspire to be like. We weren't physically together that often at all. But it was so enjoyable when we were together. Did she know that? Did she know how much I enjoyed sitting in her dining room, doing and saying nothing? That I loved when she'd
tsk tsk me, or say "aiyah" at my choice of clothing/food/humor and smack me on the tush while grinning that genuine grin? We got along because we loved to laugh, and laughed easily. I could tease her despite our 70-year age gap, and she'd reward me with a child-like smile while giving me a grandma-like thump. She had orange-slice shaped eyes when she smiled. She'd cough when she was hungry, tired, or stressed. When her body wasn't cooperating like she wanted it to, she'd smack herself on the leg/arm/head.
Getting old is no fun, she'd always say. But she was fun! Being with her was fun!
So here's a list of things that made me smile about my Chi Yi Poa. Just in case this blog still exists when I have kids of my own. Her taste in jewelery was terrible--the gaudy, plastic stuff from the 70s that grandmothers tend to have. She tried my egg drop soup one time and said it was ok, but hers was better. She loved eating shrimp, but eating 5 in one meal was a huge effort towards the end. She always told me she never watched TV or took naps, but we always did both when I went to visit. She took walks around and around in her garage for exercise. She hated men, unless they were relatives. She was quiet but her eyes were constantly observing and her thoughts were always swimming. Then she'd pronounce some observation that would sound totally out of the blue, but you could tell she'd been dwelling on it for some time. She was the only one left to call my dad "
Hei Nyiou", or "Black Cow," or pretend-scold him. She'd grumble about wearing a seat belt like a kid. She used to grumble a whole lot when one of us bought a Japanese car. She was convinced that the seeds in cucumbers couldn't be eaten because they'd stab your stomach. Her microwave was a storage center for snacks. She'd let out this stubborn grunt every time she had to exert a burst of physical energy. It was a battle of wits with her when we went out to explore. She'd say she couldn't remember how to get there because she was 90, and I'd say she'd better start remembering because I wasn't from around here. We'd find our way eventually, and almost always because she'd rememer.
I know these things are small. But these, and a hundred other things about my Chi Yi Poa, made her remarkable to me. And I'll miss her and think about these things until we're able to see each other again.
