I do not like Toad.
By: Allison Gee, Operations Editor
I held my breath as the breeze tangled my hair. The sky hovered between day and night, neither ready to sleep nor fully awake, a typical November in Nebraska. Tension knotted my stomach as I swallowed hard, walking closer to my Aunt Deb, who sat under the patio of her makeshift home. Even before I opened my mouth, she and I could both feel the weight in the air, the unspoken truth. When I opened my mouth to speak, my voice shook, and in that moment, I knew I needed to be strong.
My Aunt Deb was dying from a stage-four brain tumor we’d named Toad, a cruel disease that altered her mind, but kept her heart strong. Her journey toward death had been remarkably graceful, and I knew my own emotions could offer little to complement it. “I will see you lat-” I began, then stopped, realizing the lie of my own words. Neither of us needed words; the silence said it all. Instead, she reminded me of my beauty, of what I had to offer this world. I leaned in for one final hug, whispering “I love you,” and said goodbye with a shake in my voice. I turned quickly, hiding the tears that threatened to fall. The wind whipped my hair in every direction, yet her last words held me in place, “Allie Sue, go get 'em! This world is yours.”
The first memory I have of my aunt Deb is a scary one. My parents were leaving town for a business trip, entrusting her with the daunting task of watching my three older sisters and me. I remember being terrified; all I wanted was for my mom to come back and tell me I was going to be okay. I did not only cry. . . I screamed. Instead of responding with anger or frustration, aunt Deb sat down beside me with a photo album. Slowly, my sobs quieted and were replaced with curiosity and wonder. She flipped through pictures of my mom and memories that they shared, her voice steady and gentle. By the end of the trip, my aunt Deb had become my best friend. From that moment on, she was my safe place, my guide, my Aunt.
Thirty minutes into the car ride, after saying goodbye, tears still streamed down my face. At first, they were tears of fear, fear of the grief I would carry for her, but they then shifted into tears of gratitude. The crack of sunflower seeds inside my sister's mouth reminds me of the countless road trips I would take with my aunt. I was forced to listen to her Cowboy audiobooks, and I made no effort to hide how little I enjoyed them. Through my parents' divorce, Aunt Deb was always there, offering a laugh, a smile, and a sense of consistency. When we first moved into her house, I was bratty, unhelpful, and bursting with a personality too big for anyone to tame. She let me turn her living room into a dance floor and let me express myself in every way. I grew up alongside her presence, and with the help of her husband, she taught me how to help, taught me how to be grateful, and taught me when appropriate times were to pass gas.
I long to go back to those days: spitting sunflower seeds while listening to audiobooks, eating brats around a campfire, gardening under bright skies, laughing together until our sides hurt, and hearing her sigh with pure happiness. I long to hear her voice one more time, to feel her presence, to hold on forever. But there is a reason God gave us memories instead of a rewind button. A reason these moments, though fleeting, are eternally ours.
I don't understand the world, nor am I meant to, but we can all agree that death is a scary thing and one that is hard to talk about. This world allows for so much heartbreak, and at levels we will never understand. However, I do know that everything in life has an end, and grief is ultimately the true measure of love. Even when her time runs out, I know that I won't lose her; instead, I will meet her in new ways. My aunt Debbie has handled her walk with death as gracefully as one could, and my challenge is for us all to do the same. Be a testament to the love she brought into this world. Walk this life with purpose, and to my Aunt Dufous, I will always be your Alliesue.