Changing of the Guard

She was the “hip” Aunt. Aunt Mildred, the life of the party, the “fun” Aunt. Did it matter that she abandoned her son to live it up while her older sister took up her parental responsibilities? Did it matter that she drank too much and too often and spilled the beans about my hidden paternity in a drunken, laughing frenzy when I was only 13 years old? Every family has skeletons but I’m sure my parents didn’t want that one to jump out the closet at that moment. I’m sure my Mom wanted more time. I could tell because it was the first time I saw Mom cry.
Since she was the one to inform me that my Dad was my Dad in name only and that another man was actually my sperm donor, it was only fitting that when it came time to look him up that I would go to her. Sure enough, she was able to track him down and we all went to see him, this tall, larger than life man, so full of himself (and I wonder where I get it from). Looking at him was like looking at me, only with less hair. I didn’t want a relationship with the guy, only to know he existed and Aunt Mildred helped me fulfill that desire and she never told my Mom of our visit, she knew it would break her heart.
I remember one time I asked her what a speak easy was, she simply responded, “drugs, fun and funk,” and proceeded to take me across the street to the establishment that my parents always turned their nose up at as we drove by to get to her house. It really was nothing but a juke joint with tattered wooden floors and worn out stools next to the make-shift bar….it did smell pretty bad in there, I’m sure there was drug activity but it was too dark to see and if this was someone’s idea of fun, well, I pity them. The thing is I got to see it. Aunt Mildred was always willing to allow me to see the truth in life, the truth that I never would have learned growing up in suburbia where manicured lawns and dinner parties were standard.
When I heard she’d had a stroke I knew it had to be bad. She was always petite and 6 months in the hospital in recovery whittled her away to nothing. But unlike the other stroke victims I had known in my family, she can’t speak, all she can muster these days are mere grunts. I would imagine her lifestyle didn’t lend to having the best options in healthcare.
She exists now a shell of the fun and hip Aunt that I grew to love. That sly grin that was her trademark is the only thing the stroke didn’t take from her. Oh, and her appetite. I wonder did she ever imagine that this is how she would live out her later years? Does she have any regrets? What would she say to me if she could regain her speech, what advice would she give?
The one thing that befuddles me and probably will until the day I die is that my Mother is her caretaker. The sister who revealed her deepest, darkest secret and shattered her world when she thought a marriage and quick adoption could hide her teenage error. Obviously all is forgiven, right? In life we all experience the changing of the guard, but could either one of them imagine that their roles would morph into caregiver and invalid? One day I will have to ask both of them just that.

Cindy Davis