Auntie Doc

On Saturday morning, my great aunt had a stroke.

Her name was Elizabeth Westland, but I never once called her that in the 28-plus years that she was a part of my life. To me and everyone else, she was always “Auntie Doc,” inspired by her younger years when she worked as a nurse. A small, timid, thoroughly lovable woman with a curly mane of white hair, Doc was married for nearly 50 years to Milton Westland, an Oldsmobile mechanic from Toledo. Many, many happy afternoons in my childhood were spent at their house, playing ping-pong in the basement with Milton or watching television in the living room as Doc played the organ.

Milton tragically left us in 1998 when he was in a car accident while driving with a friend. From that day, a change seemed to happen in Auntie Doc, as the loss of her husband had obviously affected her greatly. Milton had been a strong, healthy man who had taken amazing care of himself over the years, and his sudden passing was a shock that hit us all, but none moreso than Doc. Unable to really get along by herself, she was forced to sell the house and move to the Perrysburg Commons, an assisted living community.

I wish I could say that I stayed in touch over the years, but the truth is, I didn’t go to see her much. I wish I had a reason why that is the case, other than being so busy wrapped up in my own life - school, work, friends, etc. - that though I often passed through Perrysburg on my way to and from work, I rarely stopped by. When I did, she was obviously happy to see me, and we would sit and chat or she’d ask for my help taking care of something, which I was happy to provide. She was a big part of my family and I loved her, but for some reason during those eight years I bet I actually made the trip to see her maybe twice a year. These missed opportunities are what are haunting me more right now than anything.

In recent months, she had been recovering from some heart problems and had been staying at Heartland, a recovery center in Perrysburg. She’d had problems like this in the past (Doc was a bit of a hypochondriac, and could drive some of us a little crazy with it), and at her age was frequently making trips to the doctor or the emergency room when the situation called for it. My folks had been trying their best to take care of her, taking her clothes for washing, keeping up with hr bills, doing her taxes and so forth. Something was different this time, though. She wasn’t getting better, and emotionally she seemed unusually fragile around us.

When the stroke occurred, I wasn‘t home. I had left the house at about 8 that morning for a meeting at work, then from there I went straight to Bowling Green to meet up with Greg, as we were headed to Cleveland for a trip to see a wrestling event with Chris and Matt Hirth. It was a tremendously fun weekend and something I felt like I had needed for a long time. No one in my family wanted to spoil that, so I didn’t find out what happened until Monday morning.

As I should have many times in the preceding years, I went to see Doc in the hospital that afternoon. She lay in bed, ostensibly awake, but barely responding to anything. I’d been told that the stroke had all but paralyzed her left side and she was essentially “asleep,” which they expected would last a few days. When she woke up, they would have a much better idea of how extensive the damage had been. I sat with Doc for about 20 minutes, held her right hand and talked. Occasionally I got the impression she could hear me, as when I told her I loved her and her arm twitched in response. I apologized for not being around more and promised I would be back the next day, by which point the doctors seemed to indicate she might be awake.

Again, my lack of information stung me as I was driving home. I called my grandma, who was obviously in great pain emotionally over these events - this was not just her sister, but her life-long best friend. She informed me that the doctors had determined that the stroke had, in fact, been much more severe than they’d first thought, and that the right side of her brain was now swelling. It was not expected that she would make it through the week, perhaps not even the night.

I did return to see Doc the following day, as promised. We were arranging to have her transferred back to Heartland, so her friends from the Commons could see her and say goodbye. I checked in with a nurse to find out the progress of these arrangements, then stopped in her room to see her. She was still in the same position, and a noise came with each breath, like she was snoring. I told her of our plans to have her moved, then held her hand as I said I loved her, then kissed her goodbye.

Auntie Doc passed away this morning at 8 a.m. She was 86 years old.

Upon reflecting on these events on Monday night, I couldn’t shake the fact that I never will really get a chance to tell Doc how much I loved her, and how much she meant to my life. The last time I really saw her was about a month ago, when she was still at Heartland. That was a quick visit to pick up her laundry and check in on her. I never said anything of my feelings then. When I saw her in the hospital, it is impossible to tell if she could hear me or not. All those years, all those chances, all that time, wasted. As Mick wrote in he blog one week regarding Eddie Guerrero, “So often in life, we fail to tell people who are important to us just how we feel about them until it’s too late.” Although I tried desperately in the past few days to take that opportunity, I can’t help but believe I missed my chance.

Thinking about all this, I sent out a few e-mails to people in my life who I love, and made sure that I told them how I felt. More will be sent in the coming days, and more talks will be had. More words will be exchanged, more feelings shared. I never want to feel this kind of regret ever again. I never want to let a moment go by where those who mean so much to me do not know how I feel.

(An unintended side effect of this initial batch of e-mails was that I got a lot of concerned return mails asking if I was sick or anything, as I didn’t talk about what exactly was happening - I just said that I was looking at some bad times ahead, and that I wanted to touch base with those I cared about. My apologies for not being more forthcoming in details, and I’m sorry if I got anyone worried. I’m fine, honest!)

There is still the funeral to prepare for, and looking after my grandma, who obviously has to be devastated by the news. There will be a lot of sadness in the days to come. I will probably not be around here all that much in the coming days (I‘ll check in for e-mail and so forth), and I can’t say how often I’ll be able to hang out with my friends, either, though I shall probably need that kind of emotional release soon enough. But until then, please know that I love each and every one of you dearly, and I am eternally grateful that you are a part of my life. To me, you are ALL my family.

And to Doc, I can only add once more, I love you, and will never forget you.