Keening in the Time of COVID-19

I come from a predominantly Irish family on my dad's side. I've spoken about how identity can be a sticky wicket in the past, things are not always as they appear and all that, but this isn't that kind of piece.
This is a piece about death in the time of COVID-19.
This is a personal piece about death in the time of COVID-19.
This is a personal piece about death in the time of COVID-19 and what that looks like for one part of one family.
OK, fine, this is a piece about me and how much my Aunt meant to me and how COVID-19 played a part in the story. Given all that, and the family tradition of how we talk story, it isn't meant to be spot-on with facts, this is a piece about feelings and emotions more than anything. So, should it happen that you're a family member reading this, please understand, it's just my way of saying how much I love Alice.
I got a text this morning from my cousin that my beloved aunt had passed away. Thankfully, she was on hospice and it was peaceful. It's also true that she was in a care facility following a protracted health situation and it is presumed, based on symptomatology, that she had also contracted COVID-19. She was on hospice, as I mentioned. Basically, she had been in poorer health for a while, had a medical procedure around December, I guess it was and ended up having more complications which eventually led her family to bring her from her home state to another for physical rehabilitation and monitoring of the complications. I hadn't really been aware things had gotten that bad. I live about an hour from where my aunt lived, strongly independent and very happily with her "memories'' in the house she raised her children in. She was in her early 90's, had at-home PT, had a local shop where she'd pick up pre-made meals, had regular contact with her neighbors, many of whom had also raised kids there or had grown up alongside her own children. She loved Klondike Bars.
My aunt was the eldest child of many, growing up during the Great Depression in the South Bronx. She was 15 months older than my dad and she was his guardian in many, many ways. Without going into the details here, suffice it to say when my dad had a major change of plans in his life, it was Alice who took him in, alongside her own four kids that she was in the middle of raising in a home with four bedrooms (two were converted from the attic) and one bathroom. She's the one who told him to get a job, any job as he applied for teaching positions and waited to hear back. She's the one who suggested he apply where he ended up working for I guess close to thirty years. She might also have played a role in encouraging him to reach out to my mom, but I have no idea on that, it's just a guess.
See, she was the one who was there for all the good things that happened in my life. She sent me birthday cards and xeroxed articles about things she thought I would be interested in. She emailed me funny things and interesting things. And when we got together, we'd sit and talk for hours and hours and hours. Ask my family, they'll tell you I am not exaggerating at all. If you know me personally, you'll not be surprised by that. If the "gift of gab" is a real thing, we've got it in aces. She would always welcome me to visit, saying that she knew I had my own life, but the offer was always open. She was a beautiful soul and a blessing in my life. And she was there for all the rough times too. It was her house or ours for most family gatherings for well over 20 years. For a few years in a row I saw her every week. She was truly a second mother to me.
So, now you know my connection to my aunt, maybe you're lucky and blessed and you have someone in your life you hold this dear. If not, I hope you someday do. Everyone should have someone like Aunt Alice in their lives at some point. She always gave me hope, made me feel like I could do it, whatever tough stuff I was going through. She was like a flesh and blood guardian angel.
I took a solo drive in February to say hello. It was about five hours, I think. I took my time, stopped at rest areas to snack and sat in my car listening to the audio book of "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn" because I remembered talking with Alice about it when I first read it as a kid. Her eyes lit up when I told her I was listening to it when I finally arrived at the care facility. We talked for a few hours, her grown child coming by with a meal that she would actually eat. Considering that she survived the Depression with very little to choose from, she had become a bit of a picky eater. Or perhaps that is why she had become a picky eater, she had come through it and had come to a point where she had a choice so she was going to choose to eat what she liked. Anyway, I went to my cousin's house for the evening, had dinner with them, got up, said farewells, stopped by for a half hour to visit with my aunt a little more before heading home. We said everything that needed to be said and enjoyed a little gabbing. I gave her a hug. I should have held on longer.
I spoke with her a couple times since then, once just last week, her voice quiet and clearly each word took a great deal of effort. I tried not to let on that I was in tears, tried to hear and understand each word and missed a lot of what she said because it was difficult to understand. I got that she loved me, that she sent her love to all my family, all that kind of stuff. What a blessing it was. This is a rough time. She gave me all the words she could to help me through it.
And this morning, she breathed her last and left just a few days shy of her birthday. I don't doubt that if she had a choice in that, it would be her preference to skip this one. She'd told me she had a good life and was happy with all her memories. I know enough about her life to be amazed that she'd come to see it that way. She must have found a wisdom, a treasure trove of forgiveness, something that helped her come to peace with everything, because it was clear she had from the conversations I'd been having with her. She had a care aide. I tried calling today to thank all the folks on the unit for caring for her. I had asked the receptionist if I could just leave a message, but he put me through and then the phone rang for over a minute and a half and I just hung up. I'll try to send something later to thank them for being with my dear aunt while none of us were allowed to be. I would have been there if I could have and I know she knows it. I am so grateful I went to visit when I did.
So here's the "life in the time of COVID-19" piece. I was raised in a family that was predominantly Irish-Catholic, as I started to say earlier. In my family, we have wakes with open caskets so we can say goodbye face to face, and folks cry and hug and prayers are said, then usually everyone hangs out for hours talking, we have a funeral and everyone cries and hugs some more and of course there is more praying and then everyone hangs out for hours talking and at some point, folks start leaving. When this is all over, I think I may have to get into the habit of never ever missing another funeral. Because, while it's too early to know how my aunt's family will be handling arrangements, I know it will be different.
I think she would have wanted ALL the hymns that make people cry and bagpipers (even if uilleann pipes would have been more "authentic" the tradition of having the bagpipes always makes everyone cry) -- we'd discussed such things because we talked about pretty much everything anyway. Crying to get it out was something we discussed as a noble goal of a good funeral. Again, Irish. Irish people used to hire keeners (yes, like the last name, as far as I know), professionals who would sing and cry and mourn. I think some of us in my family have inherited this on some genetic level, and with a big family, we've had plenty of practice.
So here we are, none of us were able to visit her once the facility went into lock down. She was weak and tired and wasn't about to start up social Zoom calls. I count my blessings that I had time off work that I could go visit. There are no gatherings allowed like we would have had to view the body and pay our last respects in person. No keening as they close the coffin, no priest offering confessions at the funeral home in hopes of redeeming any of us before the funeral mass and communion the next day, no bagpipes, no graveside service where we choke out words that, for many of us are like a vocal muscle memory that we'd say just to give her out of respect for tradition, so she'd have the same send-off as her parents and such... or maybe not. Maybe we wouldn't have had the wake at the Irish funeral home, and the priests and the hymns. I don't know, really. I do know that I was clearing my mother's house over the weekend and stopped at the cemetery where most of our recent family is buried and tried to find my uncle's headstone and couldn't. I literally told him hello out loud though. If I were to be allowed to attend anything, I would want to, though I am on orders from my primary care to not be doing any of the shopping and so forth. So, I don't know. Maybe that big cousins' Zoom call four of us started talking about a couple weeks back will happen now and we'll talk for a while.
It's a weird fact that one can have the internal grief that comes from losing someone you love and also the internal grief of losing the opportunity for mourning. This isn't the first time I've had to say goodbye to an aunt from a distance, unfortunately. COVID-19 has shifted my perspective on doing things the first time one is able to manage it. It has been a growing awareness for me in recent years, but for sure, this piece, the COVID-19 piece is even weirder.
So for all of us who can't be there in person to say goodbye while someone we love is ailing, can't pay our last respects before a casket, can't attend a gathering of remembering a life lived and/or give someone the sendoff they deserve in the ways we usually do, my heart is with you all. With us all.
For all the folks who are working in facilities and hospitals, regardless of your role there, if you're the one inserting an ET tube or the one emptying the trash out, or tending to transporting their earthly remains, please, please know how you are held in eternal appreciation for every kind word you utter, every masked smile you share, every time you take thirty extra seconds to connect to the folks you're working for. They are our loved ones and we would be there if we could. You are the professionals now, the ones in place of keeners for those who are transitioning out of this life. The ones who can't be saved from this virus deserve the best possible send offs we can give them. I know you're the unsung heros here. You're the unseen who are holding vigil on our behalf. I do not know who offered my aunt the last comforts of her life, but I know she appreciated the kindness. As do I.
Rest in peace, Aunt Alice. Know you are loved.