Inspired by a writing challenge around the topic of: “a spiritual or religious experience” and also aligned to the theme of the Moth Radio Hour episode from 4/25/23, entitled “Bearing Witness.”

My aunt Jill was a fascinating woman.  My mom’s only sister, she abandoned her Wisconsin homeland for the Arizona desert, so I didn’t really get a chance to know her until I was in my teen years.  She was a free spirit who loved gambling and seeking a deal – whether at a garage sale, thrift store or a local restaurant with generous portions.  And even more, she loved telling you about it. 

Jill was quick to adopt several MLM pyramid style businesses and my primary connection to her as a child involved the large Christmas box she would send to my grandparents’ house each year.  Filled with lots of treasures, most were connected back to her recent businesses.  The Oxyfresh line of dental care and home cleaning products was a staple for many years.  It was less thrilling, as a 7- or 8-year-old, to receive new toothpaste for Christmas, but “the box” was still exciting and we looked forward to it, as well as Jill’s cute, thoughtful notes (often attached to each, individual gift) every year. 

Jill also loved hearing stories from anyone and everyone.  She was one of the least judgmental people that I’ve ever known, with a big heart for people and animals.  Sometimes she could be a bit wacky, but she never seemed self-conscious or worried about how some of her more bizarre quirks would be perceived by others.

As a small example, while heading in for her shift as an appliance salesperson for Sears (following her return to Wisconsin when she was in her 50s), Jill noticed a small, stuffed unicorn that someone had dropped in the parking lot.  It was a frigid, blustery day and when she came back out to the parking lot following her shift, it was dark and the parking lot was empty.  But that little stuffed unicorn still sat, sadly, on the ground.  Jill felt sorry for the stuffed toy and picked it up to bring home, naming the unicorn Darla.

Jill was exceptionally proud to buy her own home, right across from her parents, and she loved her independence.  With her mom, my Gigi, as her copilot, they went on many grand adventures – fishing (and getting stuck in the weeds) on Rose Lake or gambling into the early morning hours.

And then Jill got sick.  At first, she was having terrible headaches and doctors chalked it up to stress and tension, but Jill knew there was more to it.  Finally, when she couldn’t take it any longer, she went to the ER, ringing in 2008 from a hospital bed.  After a series of tests and scans, everyone’s worst fears were confirmed: it was cancer.  We came to understand that she had lung cancer, which had metastasized in her brain.  She was going to die – maybe she would go down fighting, but this wasn’t the type of thing you walked away from.

The years that she fought cancer were hard on everyone, especially my mom, her brother, Randy, and Gigi.  With the best intentions, they struggled to trust each other and let go, allowing someone to help them shoulder the weight of feeling and responsibility.

But during those years we added some fun memories too.  I gave birth to my first baby, a little girl, and Jill loved seeing baby Emaline.  By that time she had lost all of her hair and was having a blast wearing more dramatic wigs, extending her traditionally short, curly hair into long flowing waves.  She was more emotional during that time, experiencing flashbacks of people and moments from earlier years but mostly holding the love and joy of past and present very close.  It was as though she could sense how fleeting life was and wanted to soak up every last bit: eating as many of her favourite Trader Joe’s sandwich cookies as she desired, and staying up as late as her body would tolerate.

I joined her and Gigi for one of her doctor visits late into her losing battle with the cancer consuming her body and mind.  Jill always loved 80s & 90s pop music, and this happened to be the day after Michael Jackson’s death blanketed the news coverage.  As we got into the elevator at the clinic, a somber-looking black woman also joined us.  I’ll never forget Jill’s voice cracking with emotion as she says, “I just can’t believe he’s gone.  Aren’t you just so sad about it?” (without really identifying who “he” was).  This is at a hospital and medical clinic where many are fighting cancer and other terminal or emergency circumstances, but Jill assumed that this black woman must be crushed by the news of Michael Jackson, just like she was.

Eventually she had to make the transition to hospice.  It wasn’t a surprise, but somehow that cold stare of the inevitable was almost too much for my Gigi to withstand.  Since Jill’s body was still relatively young, her time in hospice extended longer than expected.  One beautiful, warm, sunny day, I decided that baby Emaline and I could make the 2-hour drive from Wausau to sit with Gigi and Jill at the hospice centre.

That day, the staff at the hospice gently informed Gigi and I that it seemed like Jill was starting to “transition.”  We notified the rest of our small, close family.  After a busy morning of playing on her blanket and chewing on her giraffe teether, baby Emaline was ready for a nap.  I carefully placed her into her buggy and rolled her into the dark, quiet bathroom next to Jill’s bed.  Gigi took advantage of the quiet moment to step outside the room to get a cup of coffee in the cafeteria and I sat next to Jill who had been essentially non-responsive for days.  I reminded her of the joy and fun she brought into all of our lives.  I shared how deep and immense the love was that Gigi felt for her, and how much we wanted her to feel that love and peace washing over her, wrapping around her like a blanket. 

While I talked, I gently stroked her face with my fingers.  Ever so lightly, I traced the bridge of her nose, up and across her forehead.  Over and over, watching her breathing slow and eventually cease.  Feeling her spirit release from this physical body that had failed her.  I didn’t feel afraid, I felt a sense of completeness.  Of closure.  Moments later, as Gigi re-entered the room, I informed her that Jill was gone.

Gigi was shaken.  You could see the panic and relief, fear and knowing, pour out of her.  Frustration that she hadn’t been in the room, at her side, during that precise moment.  Sadness that there was nothing left to hold on to.  Relief that Jill was no longer suffering.  We called the nursing staff into the room to verify what I was already certain of; Jill was gone.

And if I had to guess, I think it was likely because Gigi (and Randy and my mom) had left her bedside.  She wasn’t feeling their strong grip of longing and pain pulling her back.  While we had grown close, I wasn’t part of the team who had actively cared for her and sat with her every moment of the last year.  I could help her feel and sense the relief that she had earned; the relief that was waiting for her.

Bearing witness is an important part of life, and of death.  The rituals and ceremonies we carry, helping to mark the moments of meaning in our time on this earth.  The sacraments and markers of life: birth, baptism, graduations, birthdays, marriage, anniversaries, death.  At that moment, watching my aunt Jill, I felt a sense of clarity and connection.  Bearing witness as someone’s soul is released from their physical body is a powerful thing, if you are brave enough to cradle them and brave enough to let them go.  To bear witness to that final moment.