The Wonderful World of Wanzie: Good grief

Great Aunt Lillian was a mysterious and intriguing woman who always arrived for her annual Christmas Day visit riding in the back seat of a large, dark-colored 4-door sedan, the likes of which one would see in a black-and-white Chicago gangland film.

We had no idea where our illusive Aunt Lillian resided, nor did we ever meet the distinguished-looking man who drove her and waited in the car while she came inside for her very brief visit to distribute gifts to all the far-flung relatives who were gathered in our home.

Despite her advanced years, she was always smartly dressed in an Aunt Clara of Bewitched sort of way—always decked out in fox furs, carrying an exotic Alligator hand bag and quite often sporting a smart hat affixed to her well-quaffed hair on a roguish tilt with a single pheasant feather extending from it. As a child I was fascinated by her very being.

She wore bright lipstick with too much rouge and too much lavender perfume, which competed with the aroma of moth balls emanating from her stole.

I thought she was interesting and glamorous and didn’t fully understand why the adults tittered and mumbled asides to one another in reaction to what few words she had to impart.

As it turned out, Aunt Lillian was regarded as “not being all there,” a fact which I began to become aware of as I grew old enough to understand my Mom’s end of the once-a-year-only telephone call that mother received from her Aunt Lillian two or three weeks in advance of her annual holiday visit.

I would answer the phone and the somewhat regal voice on the other end of the line would say, “This is your Aunt Lillian calling, may I please speak to my niece, Myrna?” My mother’s name was actually Irma, a fact that could not ever be rectified in Lillian’s mind no matter how many times the mistake had been pointed out over the years, so eventually we all just went along with “Myrna.”

The once annual phone call from Lillian was not without its purpose. The dear woman would keep “Myrna” on the phone half the evening going over the list of the dozens of great nieces and nephews for whom she would be Christmas shopping, requiring a reminder of the age of each recipient and then insisting my mother wager a guess as to each child’s dress or suit size, their shoe size, shirt size, glove size, and hat size. (Yes, it was the early 1960s and we boys wore hats with our suits).

But I will never forget that the annual call from Aunt Lillian would always conclude with my mother fighting back tears until she could get Lillian off the line. The old gal asked about the various children alphabetically, so the name “Susan” always came up near the end of the call. My sister Susan, who was born on Christmas Eve, died of Leukemia at the age of five, just a week or so before Christmas. Susan passed on two years prior to my birth so I did not know her. But my dear Mother delivered Susan into the world at Christmastime and buried her in that same season. Irma now had five other kids to make happy at Christmas and she never intended we should see the pain she most surely felt at this time of year.

This scenario played out annually.

I’m not entirely sure why I decided to share this story, but I think it may have to do with something that has been on my mind as of late: loss. Loss of life, what with so many related to the Pulse tragedy who will spend their first Christmas absent a loved one who died too young.

Obviously my great aunt Lillian suffered from dementia or some such thing of which we knew not when I was growing up, but my mother’s example of never disrespecting the woman who annually caused her to feel pain in relation to the loss of her child was an example I will never forget. My mom, out of respect for her aunt, would not allow herself to cry until she hung up that phone.

Looking back, I wonder if maybe one of the reasons my mom was so patient with Aunt Lillian during those arduous and futile age-and-size-gathering phone calls might possibly have been because she knew that according to routine, the words, “Susan is no longer with us,” would have to cross her lips. People grieve in different ways and none of them are right or wrong.

If you are grieving over the loss of a loved one this holiday season or you are close to someone who has been touched by the recent tragedy, may I be so bold as to suggest you place no expectations on yourself and, most importantly, do not write the script in your head in advance of how you imagine things should play out this holiday season. Just be. And just be there for one another.

My holiday wish for my Orlando community is twofold:

1. Although many among us may be overwhelmed with a sense of loss, please, please take a moment to be mindful of what and whom you do have in your life – and openly express gratitude.

2. Be kind to one another.

My great good healing wishes go out to you all this Holiday Season.