As I get older, I notice how my life fits together piece by piece. The pieces each filled with meaning I missed before. Unrecognized pathways paved for me to follow. My Aunt Bette, not my aunt by blood, yet as meaningful and treasured as my closest kin, laid the groundwork for my future life effortlessly, it seemed. Her impact on my life was immense; bringing skills to me that I did not know I had and did not know I would need to have.
I regarded Aunt Bette, and the entire Kelley family, with awe as a kid. They experienced so much grief in life, yet continued to thrive. My godfather, Uncle John, Aunt Bette's husband, had Multiple Sclerosis. The entire time I knew him, he used crutches and walked with the assistance of the steel braces on his legs.
As a tiny girl, his appearance scared me sometimes. I was a girl prone to fear, afraid of most adults, and, so, also afraid of him. I remember hiding from him (behind his chair) when we slept over at their house. Eileen was my sister Ann's best friend and one of the daughters of Bette and John. So, sometimes I got to tag along with Ann when she played with Eileen or had a sleepover. On the other hand, I do remember Uncle John's voice was soft, gentle, and firm. He was a kind and caring man. He painted as a hobby and so did my dad. He painted the most beautiful portrait of Eileen in her blue and green plaid jumper. If I close my eyes, I can still see it.
Uncle John died when I was still too young to fully understand what was happening. Then, the following year, their daughter, Maureen, passed away suddenly. She had only just returned from the Peace Corps with her husband, Ron. They were starting out, on their way to what was sure to be a wonderful life. A golden couple, as famous to me as a child as movie stars were to the rest of the world, except these stars came from the home just two houses away from my own. When I think of Maureen, I think of a beautiful, dark-haired sophisticated, accomplished, kind lady. In the Peace Corps, she worked in Africa. Eileen even traveled to Africa to visit her. Hence my awe. At that time, no one in my family traveled at all, except that my dad's brother lived in a faraway land - California.
After both deaths, I remember my father crying. Before this, I only saw him cry while listening to opera on Sundays. I understood in my core that the family was experiencing deep, unimaginable loss.
Yet, I took my cues from Aunt Bette. I do not remember whether I heard Aunt Bette say this or if the phrase entered my entire being through ESP or osmosis or something like that, but her motto seemed to be, "You have to just keep going. Get out of the house. Be active." I never saw Aunt Bette cry. Yet, I am sure she did.
To say my godmother kept active was a huge understatement. First, she worked. I knew very few mothers at that time (the 1960s and early 1970s) who worked. When her husband got sick with MS, she stood up and started working, supporting her family.
Then, she had a big family. Three girls, Mary Pat, Maureen, and Eileen. And a son, Dennis, who has Cerebral Palsy. Dennis was also a star in our house. I remember my dad saying with gigantic, borrowed pride, as if Dennis were his son, that the entire auditorium gave Dennis a standing ovation when he graduated from college. Dennis also walked with braces on his legs.
Aunt Bette embodied hope. It was as if she believed it and, therefore, it was so. Of course Dennis would graduate from college. He was a smart man. Of course he would drive a car. Of course he would have a girlfriend. Of course, of course, of course. He would LIVE. She LIVED - always in capital letters.
Did I mention her home was always open to those in her family who needed it? What fun! A new Kelley-related star would appear at their home. Tonight, we are having dinner with the Kelleys because Mimi is visiting. Glamorous, exciting Mimi! Or, make sure we stop in to see Mary Lou while she is staying with the Kelleys. Mary Lou - another shining star to see! And, when I was in my 20s, there were other relatives she took into her home and her circle, sharing her kindness, wisdom, and firm advice, "Pick yourself up and keep going."
Having Aunt Bette for a godmother brought enormous lessons, and a little fear, into my life. How could I ever live up to her enthusiasm, energy, and goodness? It was not until later that I realized I did not need to live up to anything other than being my own, complete self. That is all she wanted from anyone - to see each person happy, productive, and fulfilled.
When my life began to mimic parts of Aunt Bette's life - my husband became ill and I left my musical theater company to support my family and my son has a physical disability and uses a wheelchair - I felt the depth of her example. I learned so much from her. Aunt Bette kicked a*%$! It may have been during this time in life that she did say the words to me directly, "You just have to keep going." That advice is a huge part of who I am now and guides me as I decide how to live my life.
In 2016, Aunt Bette passed away. She was elderly and had been ill for a few years. When I received the call, I was at work. Ann called to tell me that Eileen had called, and so on. Even though I knew this moment was coming, I felt the emotion pulling at my heart and working its way up my throat. I walked as quickly as possible in high heels down the hallway from my office to my parking space, hoping to get to my car before I erupted. No such luck. A high-pitched moan of sorrow escaped from my heart and echoed in the hallway. I didn't care who heard it now. I got to the car and let it rip, crying for many minutes before driving to pick up Ann and then onward to see our dear friends, now truly our red-headed sisters, Eileen and MaryPat. The world lost a source of goodness, happiness, and light that day.
As time moves on, I often ask myself, "What would Aunt Bette do?" In addition to everything I wrote above, she embraced the fun part of living. She traveled widely. She and her band of Merry Widows ventured to the far corners of the Earth. She experienced. She loved. She LIVED! I'll do that.
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