My aunt JoAnn died
2 Mar 2025 14:41![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nwhikerJoAnn Perry 21 March 1943 - 2 March 2023
It wasn't long enough, but what a life she lived. She went out on her own terms, after a life lived that way. She was surrounded by all the people who loved her the most (except my mom. We made the heartbreaking decision to not have her here.) My children, niece, and nephew were there until just before the nurses came, and they gave her love and hugs.
JoAnn was a professor of nursing at the University of British Columbia. She had a PhD in nursing. She specialized in geriatrics and in a bitter twist of irony, her thesis was on caregiving in dementia. She's lived in Vancouver for over 50 years, and I still remember the day she left New York, from my grandparents' driveway, in her I swear I remember it being an almost white pale purple Alfa Romeo. She made a new life there, in Canada, the country her parents had left, and made friends that have remained close since then.
She travelled. She listened to opera and went to see the Ring Cycle -the whole damn thing- in various opera houses around the world. She used to drive to Seattle with a small group of friends to attend the opera down there. They'd drive down, have dinner, watch the opera and drive back to Vancouver. That must have been both fun and exhausting!
She wore a pretty pink soft Cashmere sweater today, and I had my hand on her until the end. I was wearing a necklace that Linnea gave me a Christmas and as the light hit, it made little round dots of rainbows on JoAnn's sweater and her chair. It made me happy.
I had to tell her earlier that today was the day. She'd forgotten. That was gut wrenching. But. She seemed hesitant at first but then confirmed that this was what she needed and wanted to do. Dementia is a cruel disease. In some ways, I feel like she thumbed her nose at it. Yes, it took away her easy ability to make a decision on what to order for dinner. It took a sense of her day-to-day timing. It didn't get to take her memories. It did not get to take her dignity or her self-determination. It did not get to rob her of the faces and the names of her loved ones or of the relationships she shared with them/us. It LOST. She won.
We lost her, but she never lost herself.
There were snax (smoked salmon and prawns) and the prosecco flowed liberally. I wish I drank I could have used something to take the edge off.
I was able to tell her what a wonderful aunt and great-aunt she'd been. And most importantly, I was able to tell her what a wonderful sister she'd been to my mom, how her love and support had kept my mom whole during some of the rough times in Tunisia. I told her that the relationship she had with my mom and my aunt Judy was a model of the sibling relationship that I try to have with my sibs, and that I hope my kids will share.
At the end, when I hugged her, she told me that she loved me and that I was very special to her, and I felt so loved.
The nurse who did the final injections had been a student of JoAnn's and had gone into geriatrics because of her. It feels like a full circle there. The first medication injected had her fall asleep gently. I had my hand on her arm, my sister was at her other side, we were all close. And I told her how much I loved her, how much we all loved her, that she'd been a great aunt, friend, sister, mentor, and that she'd made a positive impact on the world in many ways. She fell asleep, like so many afternoons, as if she was having a little toes-up in her bright green recliner. After, we all hugged and cried. I kissed her forehead.
My last link to childhood.
It wasn't long enough, but what a life she lived. She went out on her own terms, after a life lived that way. She was surrounded by all the people who loved her the most (except my mom. We made the heartbreaking decision to not have her here.) My children, niece, and nephew were there until just before the nurses came, and they gave her love and hugs.
JoAnn was a professor of nursing at the University of British Columbia. She had a PhD in nursing. She specialized in geriatrics and in a bitter twist of irony, her thesis was on caregiving in dementia. She's lived in Vancouver for over 50 years, and I still remember the day she left New York, from my grandparents' driveway, in her I swear I remember it being an almost white pale purple Alfa Romeo. She made a new life there, in Canada, the country her parents had left, and made friends that have remained close since then.
She travelled. She listened to opera and went to see the Ring Cycle -the whole damn thing- in various opera houses around the world. She used to drive to Seattle with a small group of friends to attend the opera down there. They'd drive down, have dinner, watch the opera and drive back to Vancouver. That must have been both fun and exhausting!
She wore a pretty pink soft Cashmere sweater today, and I had my hand on her until the end. I was wearing a necklace that Linnea gave me a Christmas and as the light hit, it made little round dots of rainbows on JoAnn's sweater and her chair. It made me happy.
I had to tell her earlier that today was the day. She'd forgotten. That was gut wrenching. But. She seemed hesitant at first but then confirmed that this was what she needed and wanted to do. Dementia is a cruel disease. In some ways, I feel like she thumbed her nose at it. Yes, it took away her easy ability to make a decision on what to order for dinner. It took a sense of her day-to-day timing. It didn't get to take her memories. It did not get to take her dignity or her self-determination. It did not get to rob her of the faces and the names of her loved ones or of the relationships she shared with them/us. It LOST. She won.
We lost her, but she never lost herself.
There were snax (smoked salmon and prawns) and the prosecco flowed liberally. I wish I drank I could have used something to take the edge off.
I was able to tell her what a wonderful aunt and great-aunt she'd been. And most importantly, I was able to tell her what a wonderful sister she'd been to my mom, how her love and support had kept my mom whole during some of the rough times in Tunisia. I told her that the relationship she had with my mom and my aunt Judy was a model of the sibling relationship that I try to have with my sibs, and that I hope my kids will share.
At the end, when I hugged her, she told me that she loved me and that I was very special to her, and I felt so loved.
The nurse who did the final injections had been a student of JoAnn's and had gone into geriatrics because of her. It feels like a full circle there. The first medication injected had her fall asleep gently. I had my hand on her arm, my sister was at her other side, we were all close. And I told her how much I loved her, how much we all loved her, that she'd been a great aunt, friend, sister, mentor, and that she'd made a positive impact on the world in many ways. She fell asleep, like so many afternoons, as if she was having a little toes-up in her bright green recliner. After, we all hugged and cried. I kissed her forehead.
My last link to childhood.
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