This is what our grandson Alex posted to Facebook in memory of his aunt Sauci, and I just had to share it here.
Alex Bobenrieth is feeling sad.
Yesterday at 12:22 PM ·
(Disclaimer: this is going to get emotional. You have been warned)
Dear Aunt Sauci (even though your real name is Lisa)
A post like this has been long-coming, and it's finally here.
It saddens me to think of the fact that 7 years and two days ago, you passed from this world. You were one of my closest confidantes and friends. I still remember things when I was younger; dancing together with Dad on the living room carpet. Putting my cold feet on your back and giggling when you would jump and exclaim in surprise and then chuckle along with me. Baking cookies together. You always accepted me for who I was and never gave me any reason to think otherwise.
I still remember how mom and grandma would tell me how I started calling you "Sauci." I couldn't pronounce 'Lisa' when I was younger, started calling you Sauci and the name stuck.
While your death affected my whole family, it affected me in a particular way that I thought I would bring to light. Even as your earthly body lies in a cemetery in Minnesota near the parents of your spouse, I sit here at home, thinking. But not crying. I didn’t cry at your funeral or at your celebration of life. That disturbed me. Did the autism that I was diagnosed with at three years old have something to do with this? What did it mean? Did that mean that I was a monster? Something that could not feel emotion, something that should be locked away, and forgotten? I have struggled with that idea on-and-off these past years, only recently having abolished those terrible thoughts.
6 years is a long time, and so much has happened in that time. When you left this earth I was just entering 5th grade. I was scared, lonely, and most of all, I was angry. Middle school helped somewhat, but it focused more on the social aspect of things. Inside I was still in pain, although it didn’t really come up too much. I guess I just got distracted by the day-to-day stuff of life. Good thing too all things considered. Who knows what could have happened if I had obsessed over your death in the months and years that followed the abominable event? But I know you wouldn’t want me to think too much about that so I won’t. I have accomplished so much these past seven years. I graduated from middle school with phenomenal grades, already having changed so much. But high school was a greater challenge still. It was an unfamiliar environment, but somehow I rose to the challenge and managed to break my limits. Now I am a couple of weeks into senior year. Sure, things aren’t easy, but what fun is that? I am taking advanced classes and having such a fun time. I am, for the first time in years, truly happy. The only thing I can think of that darkens this bright reality is the fact that I cannot share it with you. It breaks my heart all over again to think that you will never be able to see me graduate from high school, and then college, to attend my wedding, hold my firstborn child in your arms, to see me succeed in life. Now, I must make a confession.
To be honest, it wasn’t your death that hurt me the most. It wasn’t seeing your corpse in the casket at your funeral, wearing LIPSTICK of all things. I cannot remember a single time in my life where I have seen you wear lipstick and it looked wrong. It wasn’t seeing and hearing all the crying people at your funeral. It wasn’t seeing your husband’s broken face, red with the strain of trying not to cry and failing oh so terribly. No, it was something before all that. Let me backtrack a bit. When I first heard you had cancer, I didn’t think much of it. Getting sick was part of life. I got sick, my family and friends got sick, but they always got better. You would be no different. Even when you were a bit more fatigued most of the time from the strain of fighting your gallbladder cancer in the early stages, I saw no reason for alarm. Then, when I heard the news that the cancer was almost gone, I didn’t think twice, and was just happy that it was over and that we could move on.
But then the cancer came back with a vengeance. What hurt me was seeing a woman that for so long had been one of the strongest and most amazing people I knew get beaten down so brutally by cancer that she could barely walk, and at times, speak. And I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. I have always taken pride in being able to help people. But being faced with a situation out of my expertise where the best thing for me to do was sit back and wait was the cruelest thing that the man upstairs could have done. I felt so damn helpless and useless, and I hated it. Having to watch over the course of weeks and months as cancer slowly tore you apart from the inside out was the worst thing that has ever happened to me. Nothing comes close to comparing. You would throw up almost everything you ingested, and were only drinking water for the taste and for the pleasant sensation. I began to think that you wouldn’t make it. Looking back at this makes me realize something. True fear/dread requires hope, the belief that things can still become better. That is what makes the pain all the worse, when the hope is destroyed.
Thankfully, I haven’t been consumed by this pain. You and the other people in my life both indirectly and directly taught me how to cope with it. I am grateful that I have such great friends and loved ones surrounding me today. Because of them, I don’t need to worry about being consumed by grief and pain. That doesn’t mean I won’t forget you, just that it won’t hurt as bad. I thought I would write you this so that I could move on, and learn from this experience. Your death taught me a valuable lesson about pain. It was a hard lesson, but with age came understanding. Those who try to erase pain only exacerbate it. Those who redirect it or lessen it, those are the ones who can live healthily with it. I hope I can help other people learn this lesson. I guess the reason I derive pleasure from making other people smile is because it helps me come to terms with my own pain. Hopefully I’ll see you again someday (just not too soon). I know you must be proud of me with all I have accomplished so far, and I hope things work out in my life so I can continue to honor your memory. I miss you more every day but if you ever read this, somewhere, somehow, I want you to know that you were an inspiration to everyone around you, but especially to me.
Love always,
Your nephew, Alex
