My Aunty Nancy


My Aunty Nancy

September 16, 2011 Stories 0

My Aunty Nancy

I do not want to go back to the hospital to get the stitches out of my finger.  I choose to go to my local
GP.  The doctor looked at my finger and asked, “Knife?” I replied, “Cupboard”. He is learning not
to ask.

My finger seems to be taking the longest time to heal. I am wishing my weeks away. I want to lose the splint on my finger and get the stitches out.  I want time to pass until I cannot remember the injury to my finger. This is the same way I heal an emotional accident. I like to think of my marriage break-up or breakdown, whichever way we word that, as an accident. Nobody meant to hurt the other. We went into the relationship with the same good intentions as we enter new ones now.

It humbles me to accept that so much is outside my control which at times includes my own feelings.

Helping someone is always within my control. What does it mean? Recently, someone at work thanked me for helping them by just doing my job and I found myself saying in an email “Living is about helping each other.” Maybe that sounded a bit corny. I needed to remind myself that helping someone is not a task to be done
begrudgingly. I can remember a time not so long ago when I’d give a sigh and think about the effort it would take to do something. I was so unhappy at the time, that no matter what it was, I would have had the same reaction. If I was told, “Go pick up that pot of gold and it is yours.” I would have said, “Oh, do I have to?”

By making changes in my own attitude I have picked up that pot of gold and now it is mine.

I can be so set in my ways, yet so unpredictable. I was looking for something on my desk and thought aloud, ‘but I always keep it here.’ I was looking and looking. “Who has taken it?” I casually asked Jane next to me. She looked at my desk.  She saw it and I didn’t. Jane points, “Is that what you are looking for”?  What is that about?

Sometimes, I do not see what is right in front of me.  I think I hear what is said, but I do not hear what someone has really said. I seem to be slow in processing what they mean. I hear the words but often a subtle spin has been put into the words which, if I was really good at picking up exactly what they meant, could have changed the course of my life. Because then I would have understood.

There is one thing I understand completely. One day we will all die.

During the winter, a special aunty died. She was 91. I had spoken to her for her birthday on the phone a few weeks before her death.  My Aunty Nancy was very much like my dad. She was his sister. Anyone could tell. Everyone they touched fell in love with them. Aunty Nancy’s smile would light a room before entering your heart to be held there as joy. I wanted to attend the funeral and share with my cousins the joy she brought to everyone she touched. However, because of the volcanic ash, my flight was cancelled. The airline sent me a text at 6am. I decided I might as well go into work and cancel my leave. The funeral was at 2pm the next day.
Sadly, I was not going to make it.

The next day (the day of the funeral), I went to lunch from 1-2pm. I usually take my lunch earlier. When I got back from lunch there were flowers on my desk. I wanted to cry. A young woman I hardly knew and who knew
nothing about me had left them on my desk as I had helped her with something. How do these things happen?

I knew my Aunty would be annoyed at me spending money to be at her funeral and I figured she had something to do with that volcanic ash. I have some powerful relatives and she has joined hands with them. I miss them all.

Copyright © Mary Willetts 2011

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