December 11th. Year unknown. It could have been 1992. Or maybe 1993 or 1994. My earliest memory as a child involved me being abandoned by my parents to the home of a woman I didn’t even know. Somehow, I trusted her though. I let my sense of curiosity overwhelm my sense of cautiousness. I freely wandered throughout her home as though it were my own, looking from room to room, discovering the only one she would forbid me from entering was the one with the musical instruments in it.
Midday, to entertain me, we captured her cat and washed him of his sins in the bathtub. I am not sure how either of us managed to get out of there without a scratch, but we did. Finally, she appeased me by snuggling up on the couch under an electric blanket and watching “Bambi” until I fell asleep. When I woke up, the movie was over and my parents were there to pick me up. They had brought me a Happy Meal from Burger King back from their trip, I sat down in the middle of the living room floor and put my meal on the coffee table and ate it before going home.
Years later, when recalling this memory, the piece I remembered became meshed with logical facts. December 11th is my parents’ anniversary. They did not drop me off at some random stranger’s house (although that could have made for a more interesting story). Instead, they left me in the care of my “Aunt” Kay. Kay was my mom’s first cousin, and someone who hadn’t always been in my life. That day very well may have been the first day I met her. In later years, she became a huge part of my life and helped me overcome some major struggles that I was having as a preteen—with my dad’s alcoholism, and the bullying I was facing, and she helped me gain some confidence in those situations. But as a toddler, I had no clue who she was or the impact she would have on my life.
I also had no idea how her death would affect me. It took people a long time to tell me she had cancer. I was twelve years old. I knew what cancer was. I was watching it kill my Uncle Rick. I knew that it was a death sentence. But my family didn’t tell me about her until it was almost the end. It was brain cancer. I watched her body swell and the person that I admired transformed into someone that I didn’t recognize. I watched her give all her possessions away to people she thought that they would mean something to, because how often after someone dies do they really get to the people that they would something to?
She died on July 28, 2003. The Ten Commandments plaque that she gave my parents still hangs on the wall of their living room. To this day I still haven’t seen “Bambi” a second time. I know what happens.
Midday, to entertain me, we captured her cat and washed him of his sins in the bathtub. I am not sure how either of us managed to get out of there without a scratch, but we did. Finally, she appeased me by snuggling up on the couch under an electric blanket and watching “Bambi” until I fell asleep. When I woke up, the movie was over and my parents were there to pick me up. They had brought me a Happy Meal from Burger King back from their trip, I sat down in the middle of the living room floor and put my meal on the coffee table and ate it before going home.
Years later, when recalling this memory, the piece I remembered became meshed with logical facts. December 11th is my parents’ anniversary. They did not drop me off at some random stranger’s house (although that could have made for a more interesting story). Instead, they left me in the care of my “Aunt” Kay. Kay was my mom’s first cousin, and someone who hadn’t always been in my life. That day very well may have been the first day I met her. In later years, she became a huge part of my life and helped me overcome some major struggles that I was having as a preteen—with my dad’s alcoholism, and the bullying I was facing, and she helped me gain some confidence in those situations. But as a toddler, I had no clue who she was or the impact she would have on my life.
I also had no idea how her death would affect me. It took people a long time to tell me she had cancer. I was twelve years old. I knew what cancer was. I was watching it kill my Uncle Rick. I knew that it was a death sentence. But my family didn’t tell me about her until it was almost the end. It was brain cancer. I watched her body swell and the person that I admired transformed into someone that I didn’t recognize. I watched her give all her possessions away to people she thought that they would mean something to, because how often after someone dies do they really get to the people that they would something to?
She died on July 28, 2003. The Ten Commandments plaque that she gave my parents still hangs on the wall of their living room. To this day I still haven’t seen “Bambi” a second time. I know what happens.